


When the Wolf Bites(When the Bee Stings)

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Babysitter Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Kid Fic, M/M, Racism, The Pack are Derek's Children, The Sound of Music AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sound of Music AU, set in modern day. But with werewolves. And no singing, dammit!</p><p>Alternate title: The Preserve is Alive(With the Sound of Howling)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SylvieW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvieW/gifts).



> I'm sure that there's approximately a million "Stiles is Derek's kid's babysitter" fics, but I recently went to see The Sound of Music with a friend, and neither of us could stop thinking about a Sterek version. So, since it's her birthday, this is for her.

The problem with a job like law enforcement was that the concept of "weekends" became essentially meaningless. While folks who worked a 9 to 5 might be thanking their chosen deity for the arrival of Friday afternoon at that very minute, Sheriff Stilinski's work day stretched ahead of him into the wee hours of Saturday morning, with only a four hour break until he'd be covering Sunday's callouts. And when he stopped to pick up his weekly allotted greasy breakfast sandwich, Marge at the drive through window was going to make a joke about pesky Monday mornings, and he'd have to smile and hum in commiseration while he waits for his change so he can start his luxurious two and a half day weekend. 

Needless to say, after decades on the force, it was something he was used to, but that didn't mean he didn't occasionally spend a few minutes wondering what his life would have been like if he'd taken the position at the insurance company his father-in-law had offered him when he was 20. 40 hours a week at a cushy desk job, the toughest decision he'd have to make being the blue pen or the black. His heart would certainly have been a happier camper. He'd have been there for every one of Claudia's disastrous Sunday dinners, and Stiles’ numerous parent-teacher conferences in grade school. 

Then again, the Sheriff conceded as he stretched out the paperwork-induced knots in his back, he also wouldn’t feel the satisfaction of a job well-performed against the poor odds of a surprisingly high crime rate, or the pride in his team of highly trained individuals. 

Sheriff Stilinski settled back in his orthopedic chair and watched the clock on the wall tick over to 5:03PM 

He sighed. If he’d lived the life of a paper pusher, he wouldn’t have to be sitting here in his office, waiting for the arrival of his son, who’d been expected over half an hour ago.

“TGIF, my ass,” he muttered.

 

***

 

Penises. Always with the penises.

Why was it that Stiles could, without fail, pick out the clouds that were shaped like genitalia? He’d worked through his gay panic around spring break freshman year(or, more accurately, because of spring break freshman year, and the glorious city of San Francisco) so it wasn’t like repressed lust was making him see dicks everywhere. He’d jacked off furtively in his dorm that morning, for the last time before he moved home for good, so he couldn’t blame his rampant libido with any confidence.

Likely, it was simply that he hadn’t yet grown out of his teenage boy sense of humour, despite the fact that he’d spent the last few years attempting to convince his dad he wasn’t a kid anymore.

Stiles thought of his dad as he watched the erect cock in the sky become more and more flaccid, until it looked more like a human stomach. Gross. It was nice to see his dad again, after the long stretch of post-mid-term slacking, pre-finals studying and actual finals week had kept him away for so long. It wasn’t even that college was that far away. The drive to BCSU took just under an hour, which is easy enough to justify on a lazy weekend, but just far enough to make him reconsider when he’d been running on Monster, 3 hours total sleep and the manic willpower of a guy who hadn’t gone to his stupid Astrology elective all semester, and had an exam in three days. 

With a silent apology to the Beacon Hills Public Library, Stiles dogeared the corner of the paperback he’d brought with him, and left it on his chest as he stuck his hands into the long, soft grass by his hips. God, he’d missed this place. Since he was 10, and old enough to explore past his front yard on his own, he’d been coming to this spot in the middle of the preserve, his hill, where he’d never seen another living soul. (There was this raccoon he’d seen a few times, but they had an agreement to mutually ignore each other, and forget how loud they’d both shrieked the first time they’d met.)

The sun was warm, though not enough that he thought he was getting burned, The trees on the edge of the hill that overlooked the town were singing from the jostle of the occasional breeze that kept Stiles from sweating. He probably had at least one bug crawling on him, but if he didn’t think about it too hard, it was easy to pretend it was just grass tickling his ankles or his lower back. 

He took a deep breath, filling his nose and lungs with the scent of the preserve, clean, crisp and fresh, like he imagined the mountains bottled water companies promised their springs were located would smell, but with the added earthy tang of leaves warmed by the California sun. 

Of course he’d missed Beacon Hills, and this place in particular, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that the independence he’d gotten just by being that small distance away was a nice feeling. He’d been home less than 12 hours, and already he felt the mature adult urges to do things like laundry and packing himself lunches for long days slipping away. 

It wasn’t that he blamed his father for his regression. That would be pretty stupid, considering the Sheriff hadn’t done Stiles’ laundry since elementary school. Obviously, he knew that if he ended up bringing nothing to work but beef jerky and peanut butter for the next few months, he’d have no one to point the finger at but himself. 

“Oh, god.” He froze, and sat up so fast that the book balanced on his chest went flying onto the ground between his legs. “Fucking _shit_.” 

He scrambled for his bike, which was leaning against the nearest tree, cramming the book in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He didn’t have to look at his phone to know that he was late, but he did it anyway. He was already starting down the path when he turned it on, and he winced when the numbers flashed back at him. Day one of the life of Stiles Stilinski, College Graduate, and he’s late for work.

He was in deep trouble. Like, subvolcanic rock deep. 

 

***

 

The Sheriff purposefully didn’t look up when Stiles banged his way into his office. He’d heard the tell-tale stomping of his son’s surprising large feet, and the habitual pause he made in the journey to check to see if there was anyone in the holding cells. (Not that there was ever anyone more interesting than Earl, the town’s friendly drunk.) He kept his eyes trained on the paperwork in front of him and relished Stiles’ obvious discomfort. He waited until Stiles was nearly vibrating off the ground before he pointed to the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk. 

Stiles managed to keep his mouth shut all the way from the door to his seat, and even remained silent for a whole 15 seconds while the Sheriff dropped his glasses on the mess of paper on his desk and rubbed his tired eyes. 

“I’m sor--”

The Sheriff raised a hand. “Save it, kid. I know you are.” He finally blinked his eyes open and took a good look at his son, whose whole body was radiating apology. “And I want to accept your apology, write you up, and move on from this.” Stiles’ shoulders dropped a few inches in relief, until he continued, “but, I can’t.” 

Stiles’ eyes widened in distress. “I won’t be late again, I promise. I’ll set a bunch of alarms on my phone, 

“That’s what you said last year, when you had a total of five lates, two missed shifts, and one ‘where the hell did Stiles run off to in the middle of his damn shift.’” 

“The K9 unit was lonely,” Stiles muttered. 

The Sheriff took a deep, calming breath, letting it out slowly like his doctor had recommended to keep his blood pressure down. “Stiles, I know you aren’t technically paid to be here, but it’s still a job, and you still have to show up on time for your shifts.” 

“I know, Da--Sheriff.” None of the deputies cared much if either of them acknowledged the nepotism, but Stiles had decided the after his freshman year to practice for when his internship became an actual job. It always took the whole first week of Stiles’ summer for them both to get back to a working relationship. It took even longer for the Sheriff to stop being appalled by Stiles calling him “Sheriff” in their own home. 

The Sheriff picked up his cheap Wal-Mart reading glasses and gestured with one of the arms. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, since you’re not going to be working here.”

Stiles didn’t fall out of his chair, but it was a close thing. “W-what?” He sputtered, looking suddenly years younger. His wide, shocked eyes had gazed up at Claudia the same way after he’d been stung by a bee for the first time. “But, you said that--”

“I know that we worked out a deal, you and I.” An unpaid, unofficial internship in the summer months, in exchange for tuition. “But, son, even you have to see that this isn’t working the way we thought it would.”

Stiles scoffed, and burst up from the chair, “I dunno what you mean. It’s working great!” He paced in the space in front of the Sheriff’s desk, his long arms barely missing the stacks of files and picture frames in the cramped office. “I’m getting the experience I need, you get help pushing paper. It’s a win-win.”

“I just don’t think you’re ready to take this seriously as a real job.”

“And whose fault is that?” Stiles whipped around to face him, bumping into the chair, then sitting down, like the Sheriff would think he’d meant to do it. “If you’d have let me, I’d be finished police training by now, and working here for real. But, noooo, somebody thought I needed a fancy piece of paper letting people know I can pass a few classes.”

“And I stand by that decision.” He hadn’t ever told Stiles that Claudia had made him promise to send their son to post-secondary. He’d rather listen to him complain about it every summer than make him feel guilty for wanting so badly to disrespect his mother’s wishes. “Don’t try to tell me that criminal psychology isn’t going to be useful when you want to become a deputy.”

“Dad, seriously. It’s Beacon Hills PD, not Criminal Minds.”

The Sheriff took another deep breath, rustling the stack of paper in front of him as he let it out. Stiles had told him when he was 8 years old, and he’d been the coolest kid at Career Day that he wanted to be a police officer. But, for the last few years, his fatherly pride had been battling with the knowledge that Stiles, with his hyperactivity, slight moral ambiguity and inability to be serious might not be happy with the life he thought he wanted.

“Son, I know this is where you think you ought to be. And I’m not saying you won’t end up here, but I think you need a break.” 

“Oh, great. My first break-up, and it’s with my boss.”

“Can it. It’ll just be this summer. In the fall, you’ll be going for your police training with the county, so we’ll try again after that. For now, though, you need to fulfill your end of the deal.” He reached into his side drawer and pulled out a business card. He tapped the heavy paper on the arm of his chair for a few moments before tossing the square down in front of him. It was a testament to Stiles’ shock that he didn’t pick it up. “Have you ever met any of the Hales?”

Stiles’ nose scrunched in confusion. “Don’t think so.”

“But you know of them, right? They live quite a ways out of town, and keep to themselves.” 

“Most of them died years ago, in an accident, right?”

“Yes, a fire. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember. You weren’t even in high school then, and it was right around your 14th birthday, so.” He broke off. There was a beat of silence. Neither of them wanted to talk about the week of Stiles’ 14th birthday, when Claudia had lost all semblance of lucidity for the final time.

“Why?” Stiles squirmed, and gripped the seat of the chair.

“I was talking to Derek Hale this afternoon.” Probably for the first time since he’d delivered the news of his family’s death eight years ago. “He came into the station to cancel the background check he’d asked us to run on his most recent live-in babysitter. Apparently, she didn’t even last the 48 hour trial period before running out of the house like her hair was on fire. Come to think of it, her hair might have been literally on fire, if I understood him correctly.”

“Yikes. How many kids does this dude have?”

“Seven.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. He told me he travels a lot, and obviously doesn’t have a lot of family he can count on to look after them.”

“What about their mom? Did she die in the fire too?” 

“No, a car crash, actually. Almost three years ago, now. Her only living relatives are in Florida, apparently.” He didn’t bother to mention that Hale hadn’t told him this. There were perks to every job, and his were a bit more unorthodox than most.

“That’s a total bummer.” 

The Sheriff rolled his eyes skyward. “Yes, it is a total bummer, as well as a lame sitch, and completely un-rad, bro.” 

“Ack, stop-stop-stop! I get it, school’s out, I have to talk like a normal person.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Jeez, I feel like I’m in a nightmare, where you’re gonna start chasing me with a can of Axe and a box of pizza pops. 

“Would you please get serious for one minute, Stiles?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” he said, and straightened out from his slouch. “So, what does this all have to do with me?”

“You like kids, right?” He knew the answer to this question already. Back in high school, Stiles had paid for his jeep with the money he made babysitting the kids in the neighbourhood with only a few cursory complaints, mostly about his lack of social life. 

“I like ‘em fine.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “Is this going where I think it’s going?”

“Are you thinking that you’re Hale’s new sitter? Then, yes, it is.”

Stiles leaned forward in the chair, gripping his short hair and tugging. “Are you being serious right now?” 

“Deadly.”

He let out a huff of disbelief, and let his hands fall into his lap. “You want me to be a nanny for seven children.”

“Yep.”

“All summer?” 

“Yep.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

“Great.” Stiles sat back hard in the chair, uncaring of the ominous creaking of the wooden slats. “Just peachy.”

“Come on, don’t be such a drama queen.” The Sheriff ignored the pissy look Stiles shot his way. “I’m sure it’ll be more interesting than filing.”

Stiles’ lip curled in a smile he couldn’t suppress. “You’re probably right.”

The Sheriff looked at the clock on the wall and stood up. He grabbed the business card from the desktop and held it out. “I know you’d planned to move back into the house for a while, but they’ll need you to stay with them overnight, too. So you can eat _them_ out of house and home for once. Call this number when you’re all packed, they’ll send a car. ”

“Alright,” Stiles stood too, and took the card like it’d explode if he looked at it wrong. “Whatever you say, Pops.”

“Good. I told them you’d be ready by 6.”

Stiles paused on his way to the door. “That’s in half an hour!” 

“I know.” He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m sorry to spring this on you so quickly, but it all sort of fell into place this afternoon.” 

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what I get for never being on time.”

He was almost through the door and on his way before the Sheriff called out, “One more thing, Stiles. I don’t want it surprise you.” He went quiet, and could hear the television in the breakroom playing the news. He couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but he could picture it. The rising tension, the protests that escalate to riots. The ridiculous laws that are somehow getting passed. “The Hales are werewolves.” 

Stiles met his eyes, all traces of joking or sulkiness gone. He jerked his chin in a nod. “You know that’s fine with me, Dad.” 

“Good.” He had known, he thought, as Stiles left his office, but it was nice to hear the proof that he’d raised his and Claudia’s son alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for casual racism toward werewolves. Since SOM was originally set during the 1930s, tensions were high between Germany and Austria. That didn't really work for this AU, so I've recast the Austrians as werewolves, and it accidentally became a metaphor for race issues. Oops. Hopefully it isn't too heavy-handed, but I can't promise anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: For the purpose of this fic, Kate is not an Argent. She was just generally a crappy person, not related to Allison or Chris in any way. It doesn't end up mattering a whole lot in the scheme of things, but it would be weird if you didn't know that.
> 
> Also, warnings for references to casual drug use. *Shrug*

As the crow flies, the Hale house wasn’t that far from Stiles’ own. However, since the Preserve lay in between them, the journey took almost half an hour through the winding rural roads. As he and the driver, whose name he’d forgotten 10 seconds after hearing it, drove through the trees, Stiles stared out the passenger side window, his mind whirling.

Stiles loved his dad, and trusted his judgement, in everything besides how many helpings of chicken alfredo a man in his fifties with a history of heart disease needs. He could see truth in what his dad was saying, even if it broke his heart a little. 

For months, whenever he tried to picture his destiny as one of his father’s deputies, he could only conjure a blank slate. Even with his overactive imagination, visions of his not-too-distant future in which he, alongside his dad, stopped people for speeding, doled out parking tickets and chased kids with skateboards off private property were nearly impossible to picture. One of his dad’s old uniform shirts that he’d worn while repainting the porch last summer had sagged on his frame, but felt constricting.

So, it wasn’t like he didn’t appreciate the distance his father had put between him and scary decisions. But, honestly, seven children? He was going to get eaten alive. 

The driver slowed the car--which was more like a tank, to be honest--and turned onto a long dirt road. A driveway, it turned out. The Hale house loomed at the end of the path, looking down at the sprawling, manicured lawn like a snooty octogenarian and casting creepy shadows in the rapidly fading light.

When the car/SUV/mothership rolled to a stop in front of the wide porch, and Stiles grabbed the bag of essentials he’d kept with him and hopped down to the ground. The driver immediately opened the trunk and started unloading the rest of his stuff. (Thankfully, he hadn’t done any unpacking of the stuff he’d brought from his dorm, so his life had already been in boxes) He tried to help, but the guy smiled stiffly and told him to wait inside for someone to show him around. 

The foyer was just as grand as the outside, and was dominated by a big staircase, gleaming with wood polish. Stiles felt like he was approximately the size of an ant and he was about to go offer to help unload the car again when a pleasant voice called out a greeting.

“I’m Deaton, I work for Mr. Hale,” the man said, and held out his hand for Stiles to shake. “Welcome, we’re glad you could be here.”

“No biggie,” he said, then chastised himself for talking like a high schooler again. He hefted his duffel. “Um, where should I put this?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Deaton took the strap from his hand and stepped back. “Give me one moment, and I’ll tell Mr. Hale you’ve arrived. He’ll want you to meet the children right away.”

“Kay.” Deaton was gone in a matter of moments, and Stiles was left, again, in the massive entrance. After a few minutes of waiting patiently in the oppressively quiet hall, Stiles began to wander. He only went about 10 feet, to where a table with a bowl of flowers on it sat next to the stairs. The bowl looked expensive, like everything else in the house. The flowers in it were real, and seemed fresh to Stiles, who, admittedly, didn’t know a thing about flowers. 

“You’re the new sitter.”

He knocked the bowl over and jumped a foot in the air.

“Shit -- Uh, I mean, damn, wait, no, uh, yes. I am.” A little blond boy was glaring down at him from the banister to the left of the staircase. “I’m Stiles. And you are?” 

“I don’t think you’ll last long.” 

Stiles' hand froze in it's friendly wave, and he tucked it behind his ear, all casual-like. "Oh? Why's that?"

"'Cuz Erica could break you in half, and she's only 6."

All the moisture in Stiles' mouth evaporated. "Well. That's needlessly violent."

The kid's eyes flashed yellow and he leapt back from the edge of the banister. "You're needlessly violent!" He yelled, and ran off. Stiles watched him go, his mouth gaping like a fish. 

"You're Stilinski?"

"Jesus Christ.” For the second time in as many minutes, Stiles’ feet literally left the floor in shock. Once again, he knocked the flower bowl, but this time, it slid over the edge of the table. For a few seconds, he thought he might have been able to save it, but after a couple of failed slap-stick catches, it dropped to the floor with a smash. While he and the man looked down at the ruined bowl and bedraggled flowers, Stiles bit back a few choice words about people in this house needing bells attached to them. Eventually, he settled for “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry about, um. That.” He toed a jagged piece of porcelain, and got water on his shoe.

“It’s fine,” the man said, tightly. “I’m Derek Hale.” 

Stiles swallowed and took in his new employer. He knew for certain now that he’d never met this particular Hale. He would definitely remembered those cheekbones.  
With a squelch of rubber sole, he stepped through the mess and extended his hand, which had the life squeezed out of it by Derek. “Nice to meet you.” Ow.

Derek hummed and dropped Stiles’ hand. “I’m sure you’d like to settle in, but I’m leaving for a flight in less than 20 minutes, so you’ll have to meet my children right away.”

Before Stiles could say it was fine, that he didn’t mind, Derek threw back his head and howled. It was a throaty sound, incongruously high, compared to his gravelly voice, but no less commanding than when he’d spoken.

Directly above them, he could hear a few thumps and pitter-patters, then an answering chorus of howls. Within moments, the children were rounding the corner and racing down the stairs. When they formed an orderly line in at the bottom, Stiles recognized the blond kid from earlier. They made eye contact and the little brat stuck out his tongue. Stiles was about to return the favour when a short, threatening growl from his father had the kid pulling an innocent face. 

“Mr. Stilinski, these are--”

“Stiles, please. Mr. Stilinski gives me the heebie jeebies,” he blurted, and Derek gave him a blank look. “You know what I mean, right? Makes me feel like a real adult.” Another look of vacuous confusion that made Stiles squirm. “Like, fuuuuutuuuure, gross. Am I right?”

Derek lifted an impressive eyebrow and continued as if he hadn't spoken, “Mr. Stilinski, these are my children. In a moment, they will each step forward and introduce themselves. I suggest that you listen closely, as in the future,” Derek’s lips thinned for a moment, “you will need to be able to tell them apart.”

“Gotcha,” Stiles replied.

With a nod, and perhaps some signal beyond the capability of human ears, the kids stepped forward out of the line with an almost militaristic precision.

“Scott.”

“Boyd.”

“Cora.”

“Jackson.”

“Lydia.”

“Erica.”

“Isaac.”

Stiles’ heart melted into molten lava mug cake with a gooey chocolate centre at Isaac’s little voice following his siblings’. He couldn’t have been more than four, with a halo of dirty blond curls. The sharp cheekbones of his father, but in miniature, were enough to bring tear to someone’s eye. Not Stiles’ though. He was a professional.

As soon as Isaac stepped back into the line, Deaton came back, with sleek black tablet in hand. He handed it directly to Stiles, then waited by Derek’s side. 

“This is yours, now. Don’t break it,” Derek said, and handed him the device. Mercifully, it already had a durable protective case on it. “It has the children’s schedule already programed in. Mealtimes, lessons, free periods and bedtimes must be strictly followed. Any questions you might have should be answered by that device. I’ve been thorough.”

“I bet.”

“Deaton will staying in the house to provide assistance when you need it, and to make sure you’re performing to my standards. After a few days, he will be leaving to join me, but will be keeping tabs on your through other supporting staff on the property. You need anything, you call him, not me. Any questions?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

Derek jerked his chin in a nod and strode past him to where his children were waiting silently. Starting from the tallest boy, he touched each of his children’s shoulders, cheeks or heads, in a stiff, but deliberate manner. Scent-marking, Stiles realized, before his long trip away from his pack. Though his back was to Stiles, he noted that the children’s eyes were lit up yellow, so he assumed Derek’s were too. 

While Derek worked his way from oldest to youngest, Stiles took the time to really observe the kids. Three girls, four boys, all fairly close together in age. As he studied the older kids, it became glaringly obvious that he was missing something...

“Are you good at math, Stiles?” Stiles only started a bit, this time, when Derek materialized beside him. “I think you’re doing some addition in your head.” 

“Nah, just imagining how much game you must have had at 10 years old.”

From the line behind Derek, a giggle rose up. It sounded feminine, but all the kids had stony faces when Derek whipped his head around to glare at the perpetrator. 

“I didn’t start that early.” Stiles nearly snorted, but Derek still looked deadly serious. “Scott is my cousin. Boyd was fostered by my parents. Cora is my sister. However, I consider all of them my children, and you will treat them as such.” The ‘or else’ was implied. 

“You got it, Pops.”

“Good.” Derek took his briefcase from Deaton and they started toward the door. Deaton had his hand on the door handle before Derek turned back and said, “and one more thing. If you ever call me Pops again, it’ll be the last thing you ever call anyone.”

The door closed behind them with a snap.

“Okay,” Stiles said, dazedly. “Day one, off to a great start.”

He looked down at the fancy gadget in his hands, turning it over a few times to find the button to turn it on. While he perused the first page of apps, he watched the kids out of the corner of his eye. They hadn’t moved from where their father left them, still standing stiff and blank-faced at the end of the staircase. When he’d been trying to learn their names--A lost cause, he’s pretty much blanked on them all--he hadn’t really noticed what they wore. Their clothes were clean, and new looking, but they were also lumpy and shapeless, in shades of beige. Jesus, they looked like they’d fallen out of a sepia tone filter.

“Alright-y, then,” he said, bring seven pairs of eyes to meet his. He waved the tablet “According to this thing, y’all have an hour and a half before bed, so we have some time. You’re gonna have to tell me your names again, because that was way too quick. Also, how old are you?” 

After a long moment of tense silence, the first boy in the line stepped forward. “I’m Scott, I’m 15, and I don’t need a bedtime.” Scott’s voice was confrontational, but he’s apologetic body language gave him away as a softie.

“Agreed, you’re old enough to make your own poor decisions about sleeping habits,” Stiles said, and opened the tablet again to make a change the Almighty Schedule of Schedules. “All in favour of no bedtime for Scott? Seconded, motion passed.” 

He closed its case with a clack and looked up to see them looking back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. “So, who’s next?”

“Boyd, 12 years old.” He stepped out of the line, but not as far as Scott. Stiles waited for him to make a demand like his brother had, but he stayed silent. Stiles stepped closer and shook Boyd’s hand firmly, only to be zapped by a mild electric shock.

“Nice!” Stiles said, shaking out his tingling hand, impressed. “Oldie, but a goodie, right?” Boyd’s placid expression morphed into some sort of pleased confusion. “Nice to meet you, Boyd. And you are?”

“Cora.”

“And how old are you?”

“None of your business.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrows, but said only, “Fair enough.” He’d learned early on in his career as a babysitter to pick his battles. She looked to be about 12.

Next, the little blond urchin mumbled resentfully through his name and age--Jackson, 9--then stuck his foot into his sister’s path when she stepped forward herself. She didn’t fall, but it was a close thing. 

“Jackson!” The little redhead cried, “You ruined my entrance!” 

Seeing the typhoon brewing, Stiles jumped in. “Wait, no, he didn’t. That was just a practice run, things are bound to be less than perfect. You can go again. Take two.”

Lydia took a deep breath, and did something with her hand in front of her face that looked very grown-up. This time, when she stepped forward, it was in front of Jackson, hiding his smirking face. “I’m Lydia. I’m 8 years old, and I like reading, the colour pink, and not Jackson. I’m human, not a werewolf, but it doesn’t matter because I have cool human powers instead of wolf ones. I’m older than Erica, because she’s 6, and Isaac, because he’s only 4--”

“No, Lydia!” Erica shrieked. “I wanted to do it! I like him!”

“It was taking too long!” Lydia yelled back, and Isaac started to sniffle next to them from all the yelling.

“Whoa, time out!” Scott and Boyd came over to calm Lydia down, and Stiles kneeled down to Erica and Isaac’s level. “I’m Stiles. And you are?”

“Erica,” she said, triumphantly. “I’m 6.”

“Awesome. Glad to meet you.” He held out his hand for a low-five, but was left hanging. He offered it instead to Isaac. “And you’re Isaac, right?” Instead of slapping his palm, Isaac placed his little hand gently on top of Stiles’ and clutched it, nodding, and using his other hand to wipe away the tears from his brief upset. Stiles gave Isaac’s hand a squeeze, then let it go. 

“Cool.” Getting to his feet, he turned on the tablet again, and double checked the schedule. “It says here that you’re supposed to have ‘leisure activities’ right now. You’re gonna have to clue me in. What does your dad consider to be a leisure activity?” 

“Usually, we read,” Boyd said. “In our rooms, or in the den.”

“Great! Let’s hop to it then. Everyone go grab their favourite book, and meet in the den.” Stiles patted Isaac's head and dropped his hand, he only took 2 steps toward the staircase before he stopped. "Does anyone want to tell me where the den is?"

"I'll show you, my books are there anyways." Erica grabbed his hand and pulled him to the door Deaton had disappeared into. Stiles tried to pay attention to the path Erica pulled him through, but it passed by in a blur. 

When she finally stopped, it was in a comfortable room filled with a plush sofas set end to end in a large U. She pushed him firmly with her small hands to one of the bends where the couches connected, then suddenly stopped and shouted, “hold on!” He waited while she moved a giant pillow aside and removed a water balloon full of dark coloured sludge with the precision of a bomb defuser. Once the package was disposed of in an unobtrusive waste basket, she ran to pick a book from one of the shelves that covered almost every inch of wall space. 

While she settled in across from him, her siblings began to trickle in, books in hand. They piled on the couches in a comfortable, companionable silence, except for Isaac who brought over a collection of stories for Stiles to read to him. 

It was nice, sitting with a big family like the Hales. They all moved and spoke and touched each other with the easiness that only long hours spent together could foster. It should have reminded him of when his mom was alive, and nights that the Stilinski family sat together, but when Stiles was a kid, he couldn't sit still for longer than 10 minutes at a time, and his dad had been working a lot of night shifts as a deputy. 

Isaac fell asleep against Stiles' side after only 15 minutes, during a story about a goatherd with only his goats for company, and Stiles lasted just a few minutes before his leg was jumping up and down and he was thinking about how easily he could grab his phone from his back pocket. 

"Would you like a book?" Scott asked. 

"Um, no thanks." He was so wired. He didn't think he'd get through a page, he was so keyed up.

"Don't you like to read?" Boyd chimed in. 

"Of course! It's great, totally awesome and educational to boot." Was that too much, he wondered. "It's just that I graduated school this week and I'm all read out." Not to mention, he’d already spent his afternoon in the Preserve with a paperback. 

The kids gave him identical puzzled and almost horrified looks, then went back to their books. Stiles tried to stop his restless leg, but after a few more minutes Jackson whipped his head up and snapped, "you're really distracting."

"I know, it's a character flaw." Isaac started to rouse next to him. "Hey, what do you say we do something else?" They still had 45 minutes of ‘leisure activity’ to get through. 

"Like what?" Scott seemed suspicious, but he closed his book and set it aside. 

That was a good question. It was too late to go outside to play. If they had a TV or a game console, he had yet to see them. What could he do with them in this house that would keep them both entertained? “How about a rousing game of hide and seek? That was one of my favourite things to do when I was your age.” His mom had been the best at pretending not to see him in his terrible hiding spots.

Scott was unconvinced. “Aren’t we a bit old for that?”

“Pshaw. Are you kidding? I played it at college just last month.” He didn’t mention that he and his college buddies had been hiding from campus security after unsubtly packing a bowl in the middle of the quad.

"I wanna do it!" Erica said, and tossed her book into Cora’s lap. She hurried over to Stiles and looked at him expectantly with her eyes huge in her face. “How do you play?”

“Seriously?” Stiles nearly pinched himself to check if he was in a horrible nightmare where these children were just adults in miniature. “You’ve never played hide and seek?”

“No.” 

“I have,” Scott piped up.

“Me too,” said Boyd.

That was something at least. “The rules are simple. One person seeks. Everyone else hides. You have until the count of 100 to hide anywhere in the house. Not outside,” he added, because Jackson and Cora wore matching devious expressions. “I’ll be the first seeker. Get it? Got it? Good. Let’s do this!”

He sprang from the couch, setting Isaac down on the floor. “I wanna play too!” Said Isaac, panic at the thought of being left behind squeaking in his voice. 

“You can hide with me,” Scott offered, standing and taking his little brother’s hand. 

The rest of the kids hadn’t moved. “Well, go on then. You gotta get the best places quickly.” He slapped his hands over his face and started to count, slow at first, then faster when the kids still didn’t move. Eventually, he heard them stumble out of the room, whispering to each other as they went. Stiles got distracted and lost count some time after 60, so he gave up and went to find him some children. 

The house was brightly lit, and cleaned to within an inch of it’s life, but Stiles didn’t know where to start. The house was clearly as large on the inside as it had seemed from the outside. He wandered down a few halls, poking his head into drawing rooms, closets and powder rooms until he got to the kitchen.

Holy high tech, Batman, he thought. The chrome appliances gleamed against the black marble countertops and dark cherry cupboards. Stiles nearly rubbed his hands together with glee at the thought of cooking in here. He’d subsisted on ramen and bologna sandwiches for the whole school year, so he was dying to cook himself some real food. He didn’t think he’d be cooking for the kids, since he hadn’t seen it in the Holy Tablet of Timekeeping, but that didn’t mean some gourmet snack foods would go uneaten by hungry mouths.

Stiles circled the island and was just about to continue his search elsewhere when he heard a soft scuffing from a nearby cupboard. 

With deliberate casualness, he turned back the fridge and opened the massive door. He helped himself to one of the plastic water bottles on the bottom shelf. He closed the door and cracked the cap, then took a long, audible swig, complete with a theatrical "ahh." He waited a few moments, and sure enough, the scrabbling came again, and this time, he could tell where it was coming from. After one more large swallow, he headed for the door, then, at the last second, he yanked open the nearest cupboard, revealing Lydia curled up beside a bunch of boxes of granola. She shrieked, then erupted in a mass of giggles.

“You found me!” 

“Sure did. That was a good hiding place.”

She frowned, her wispy strawberry blond eyebrows coming together in a much cuter imitation of her father’s thunderous frown. “But you caught me. If it was a good hiding place, how did you find me so fast?”

“Just because I found you doesn’t mean it wasn’t a great hiding spot.” He said, crouching to her level. “Someone who wasn’t me might have thought that the cupboards were too small for you to fit. You can’t always predict how other people are going to think. All you can do is try to outsmart them.” His mother had given him the same advice in grade school, when his hyperactivity and mile-a-minute mouth had alienated him from his classmates. His Mom had never let him hide his intelligence just so that he’d fit in a little better. 

“Huh.” Lydia looked unconvinced. “So, the game’s over?”

“Actually, now that you’ve been found, you get to help me find the rest of you.”

Lydia’s answering smile was sharp and cold and had Stiles shivering on Jackson’s behalf. When she crawled out of the small space, he saw an open canister of flour, strategically placed for optimal powder bombing, and thought, maybe I’m not so bad at this babysitting gig.

***

Derek leaned back from the glowing laptop screen and rubbed his pounding temples. The month long run-up to the Hale Foundation Gala hadn’t even started yet, and it was already a literal headache. No matter how much he tried to delegate to assistants and professional planners, it seemed that all the most strange and difficult requests landed in his inbox, along with urgent emails from the benefactors overflowing with subtle digs his inadequate performance, hidden in flowery praise. They all wanted their issues dealt with by him, not an underling, because that was the way his mother had done things.

Derek snapped the computer closed and placed it on the airplane seat beside him, as gently as he could manage in his current mood. _The way his mother had done things._ That phrase had become his waking nightmare in the eight years she’d been gone. God, if she were alive to see what he’d let the Hale Foundation become. After pressure from his main supporters, and the increasing tension between werewolf and human populations, his family’s legacy had become nothing more than a tax haven for rich weres in New York. The amount of money spent on actually helping were families in need shrunk every year, but there was little Derek could do to stop it. 

If he leaned on the donors to give more to the actual cause, instead of to the end of the fiscal year celebrations, he could lose more of them than he convinced. And Derek couldn’t stand to watch the little good they managed to do slip away. 

“You know, they’re already forecasting rain. You don’t need to add to it with that thunderous face.” 

Derek didn’t bother to look over when Jennifer sank into her seat, moving the laptop to the floor and leaning into his shoulder. “Do they think we’ll be getting off the ground any time soon? I told Frank I’d be there for a breakfast meeting.”

“They said they’re waiting for the go ahead from the tower. Should be less than 15 minutes.”

“Thanks.” Derek rolled his head in her direction and smiled as genuinely as his headache would allow. Smiling sympathetically back, Jennifer took over the temple massage he’d given up as a bad job.

She was perceptive like that. She always seemed to be one step ahead of him, and everyone else in the room for that matter. He knew she downplayed her role in Alpha Co, the company her partner had left her when she died. Jennifer was a remarkable woman, intelligent, confident, independently wealthy. Best of all, she had been a school teacher before they had run in the same circles, and was eager to leave the life of a corporate go-getter behind. 

The thing was, he and Jennifer weren’t dating so much as making sure they could stand each other long term. Jennifer had already lost the love of her life, and Derek had experienced firsthand what passionate romances could do to people. If they liked each other enough, and could be in each other’s space without hating every moment, that was good enough for Derek, and he would make their arrangement more permanent. Then, he wouldn’t have to drag her across the country to show her he valued her company. He’d only have Peter around to accompany him. 

“What is Peter doing in there, anyway? Please tell me he’s not hitting on the flight attendant.” It wouldn’t be the first time Derek had had to rescue some poor girl from the dubious charm of his uncle. “Does he know they’re not technically on our payroll? They come with the plane.” 

“Oh, what, like the complementary sleeping mask does? Free for your use, until it’s inconvenient?” Jennifer’s rebuke was quiet, but sharp, and her fingers stilled on his scalp. 

Derek sighed, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders, and leaned in to kiss him gently on the side of his mouth. It was nice. Pleasant. It had happened before, a few times, and he’d always been happy to be kissing a beautiful woman. He was about to deepen the kiss when Peter burst into the room in a cloud of various women’s perfumes and smugness. His default scent.

“Well, our lovely co-pilot has assured me that we’ll be on our way in just a few minutes." He settled into the seat next to Jennifer, picking up the discarded laptop and booted it up. "She told us to buckle up, because we’ll be in for a hell of a ride. Actually, come to think of it, that might have been just for me.”

“Wow, the co-pilot." Derek drawled. "You’re upgrading from the flight attendant this trip?”

“Dear nephew, that is very close-minded and sexist of you. Our flight attendant's name is Kevin. He seemed very open-minded, if you’d like try your luck.” Peter twisted in his seat, leaning into Jennifer, conspiratorially. "Has Derek ever told you, Jennifer, about how, when he was in senior year of high school, he was asked to prom by not only the most popular girl in school, but by the most popular boy as well?” 

Jennifer’s eyes twinkled and she stroked her finger through the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. “Did he? How very interesting. Well, are you going to tell me who he went with in the end?”

“Oh, it was quite the scandal. He took both. They agreed on a timeshare.” 

Jennifer laughed, and Derek allowed her and Peter’s conversation to fade into the background as the crew announced that they were preparing for take off. He hadn’t thought about high school in such a long time. He couldn’t even remember the names of the people Peter had talked about. Just a year after graduation, Derek had met Kate, and she’d been pregnant with Jackson less than five months later. The shotgun wedding that had followed had, at that time, been considered by Derek to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but when most of his family had died in the fire just half a year after that, he would have given anything to bring back his family to that they could pressure him again to do things he never wanted to do.

He missed them. Their absence was an ache that never eased, not even in the presence of his children, those born of Kate and himself and those that weren’t. He hated himself for that, that he couldn’t take comfort in the son of his cousin, or the sister he had left, or little Erica who had his father’s eyes. 

However, that hate was nothing compared to the contempt he felt for himself when he was reminded of how much he hadn’t wanted Kate to get pregnant after Jackson had been born. They’d never loved each other, he and Kate, they’d simply been sexually compatible, then forced into a partnership by a drunken night and an expired condom. Their entire marriage up to the day his family died had been spent screaming each other and having angry sex in the kitchen while Jackson slept in his crib, unaware that his very existence was the only reason Derek stayed with Kate.

After the fire, there wasn’t time for screaming fights. Peter had been the intended heir of the company if something happened to his mother, but his health, both mental and physical had been compromised, so it was Derek who had to put aside his grief to keep the Hale Foundation going, in memory of his Grandfather who’d been one of the casualties of that night.

New York was a long way from California, and it gave him an excuse to leave when he could no longer bear the sight of the children of his family playing in the rebuilt house that their parents should have lived in with them. Kate was gone almost as often, though where she went and what she did, Derek never bothered to find out. He was perfectly capable of caring for his family, and if he couldn’t be there, then they were safe with the nannies he hired.

He desperately wished he could be there to vet the new sitter. Being the son of the Sheriff came with a high recommendation, but he could never be sure. He knew Deaton could handle it, but it still felt wrong, leaving his pack when there was a stranger in their midst. Especially one as strange as _Stiles_ Stilinski. The boy was odd, and moved with jerky, flailing limbs that, annoyingly, set his inner predator on edge.

He knew his children could be a handful. He was well aware that the babysitters that left did so because they didn’t appreciate the frogs in their beds, or stink bombs hidden around the house. There was only so much that Derek could do to discourage this when he was across the country. He’d have to leave his children and their antics in Stilinski’s dubiously capable hands.

He agreed with Jackson, though, so he likely wouldn’t have to worry. Stiles wouldn’t last long.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles collapsed under a pile of children in the bend of the den's couch, losing his breath and wincing from the jabs of the sharp knees and elbows of Lydia, Erica and Isaac. The rest of the kids were sprawled on the carpet at his feet. 

Their game of hide and seek had quickly devolved into ‘Stiles and Lydia seek, then try and catch the hiders before they run away screaming into the night.” They’d discovered that werewolves were good at seeking. Too good. As it turned out, seeking wasn’t much fun when you can sniff out the hiders from 20 paces. So Stiles had volunteered himself and Lydia to be the designated human seekers, and the game had been much more fun after that. The large house had been filled with the sounds of shrieking and yelling of children and teenagers. 

Stiles was exhausted. Who knew that one house could have so many closets to search?

“Alright,” he said, sitting up under the weight of the three imps. “Bedtime, you wretches. Except for Scott.” 

There’s some half-hearted complaining, but they were as tired as Stiles was. Scott drifts up the stairs with the group seemingly at a loss with to do with his newfound freedom. 

All the kid’s rooms were along the same hallway, with a giant bathroom with four separate sinks at the end of it. They all brushed their teeth and put their pajamas on in record time, though Cora did it in reverse order and was inordinately proud about it. Tucking them in went smoothly, eerily so. Stiles had looked after a lot of kids in high school, and he’d never been able to put any of them to bed without a fight. 

After he’d closed the door on Scott reading Isaac a bedtime story, he leaned against it, and let out a long breath. It didn’t matter how well-behaved the Hales were, looking after that many kids was exhausting. All he wanted to do now was crawl into his bed and sleep until the end of time, but he suddenly realized that he didn’t even know where his room was. 

He was just about to poke his head into Isaac’s room, hoping that he wouldn’t wake him, when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. 

“Hello, Stiles,” Deaton said, after he answered. "I'm sorry I can't be upstairs to help you settle in. Your suite is at the end of the hall, next to Mr. Hale's rooms.”

“Cool.” He started walking toward the other end of the hallway, past the giant staircase. 

“All of your things were taken there, though we didn’t unpack anything. Mr. Hale thought you might want to do that yourself.”

“Yeah, I would. Tell him thanks.” He thought Mr. Hale wouldn’t appreciate Stiles thanking him for not letting the staff unpack the sparkly vibrator his college buddy had gotten him for christmas.

“If you need something, I am quite busy.” 

Stiles waited for Deaton to elaborate, but gave it up for a bad job. “That’s okay, I’m good.”

“Glad to hear it. Goodnight, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Night.” 

Stiles hung up as he came to the end of the hallway, and was presented with 3 doors. He had a feeling the middle one was probably Derek’s. If Stiles was a fanciful person, he’d have said that it emitted waves of “Enter and prepare to be eviscerated.” He tried the one on the left side of the hallway, and it looked like a guest room, but it was also empty. The right door revealed a bed surrounded by the boxes he’d stolen from the local grocery store to fit all his stuff. 

He closed the door behind him and took a good look at his new(temporary) digs. “Niiiiice.” The bed was enormous, could easily fit four of him, and it fit easily in the large room. The TV mounted on the wall gave it a run for it’s money in size. He couldn’t wait to hook up his XBox and see if any of his buddies were online. He even had his own couch in front of the display for maximum game time. 

He also had 6 feet of floor to ceiling windows on one wall, which he wasn’t sure how he felt about. It would probably be a great view, but he couldn’t tell past the rain that had started to pour down in buckets. It would also be sunny as hell in the mornings, and Stiles tended to become a creature of the night and hiss at all contact with bright light when he was tired, so he made a mental note that might have to invest in some blackout curtains.

Stiles had meant to go straight to bed, but first, he had to find his PJs, and he accidentally ended up unpacking half of his boxes. By the time he got himself to stop, it was his dad’s dinner break, so he flopped back on the covers and called him, his arm flung across his eyes, and revelling in the comfy mattress.

His dad was tired, so Stiles did most of the talking. He told him about his new employer, about the house, the kids and their awesome game of hide and seek. His dad made  
appropriate interested noises around the sandwich Stiles knew he’d packed. 

He was just about to let his dad go when he heard a tiny creak from across the room, and thought the rain got louder. Without pausing his conversation with his dad, he peeked under his arm at the windows, and sure enough, he could just make out a tall, dark shape creeping along the perimeter.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s been great,” he enthused, pitching his voice louder. “There’s this kid, Scott, he’s the oldest, most responsible Hale kid. I like him a lot. I know he’s very well-behaved. I’ve already let him get away with no bed time, so I’m sure he’d never, in a million years, betray my confidence in him and try and misuse the privilege--”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Scott rushed to say. “Stop, please!”

Stiles could hear his dad laughing on the other end of the phone, so he hung up and tossed it to the bed. 

“Did you honestly think you could get away with that? Dude, I’m sitting right here.”

Scott smiled sheepishly and shuffled his feet. “I forgot you’d be in here. I thought they’d put you in Uncle Peter’s room.”

“Tough luck, man. So close.” Scott sighed and adjusted his grip on the objected he had under his shirt. “What’s that?” Stiles asked.

Scott pulled a slim laptop from underneath his shirt, brushing a stray drop of rain off the top. 

“Dude, did you climb up here with that? That’s seriously impressive.”

Scott blushed and looked away. “Not really. Cora can do it with a bucket of pond water and not spill any.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Scott seemed to regret them, and he looked guiltier than ever.

“Huh,” said Stiles. “So, you’re putting your new non-bedtime to good use?”

“I guess.” Scott’s shoulders slumped, waiting for whatever blow Stiles dealt.

“Did you leave the property?”

“No!”

“Then we’re all good.” Stiles got off the bed and walked over to pat Scott’s shoulder, trying not to laugh at the confused puppy face Scott was making. “As long as you’re being safe, you don’t need me breathing down your neck.” 

Scott smiled, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thanks.” 

“No problem. What were you doing out there in the rain, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Crimson was a pale colour in comparison to the colour Scott turned, and his expression went dreamy. “I was skyping.”

“With who?”

“A girl.” He seemed to get lost in thought for a moment, until Stiles made an ‘and…’ gesture. “Her name is Allison.”

“Ah. Some alone time, I gotcha. I guess your family can hear pretty far?”

“Yeah. But there’s a gazebo on the edge of the Preserve that’s far enough for privacy that still gets wi-fi.”

“Clever. Do you have the wi-fi password, by the way?”

“Sure.” He handed over his phone for Scott to put it in, then went in search of his laptop to do the same. He was bent over the keyboard, waiting for it to boot up when Scott spoke again. “Stiles. You’re older than me. Do you,” he stopped, and Stiles looked over to where he was hovering by the door. “Do you know anything about girls?”

Stiles froze. He knew about a lot of things. He’d started out in college with a criminal psychology major, but ended up with a minor political science, of all things, simply because he couldn’t stop himself from taking the courses. During school, high school as well as college, he’d read books on economics, Russian history, conjoined twins, not to mention the history of male circumcision. So yeah, he’d say that he knew a lot of things about a lot of very disparate topics.

But girls? Not a chance. If Scott had asked for advice on romancing someone of the male persuasion, he might have been a bit more helpful, in that he knew what not to do, but, alas.

“Um. I might know something,” he said, hoping that Scott couldn’t hear the lie in his heartbeat.

“Awesome.” Scott bounced on his heels in anticipation. “Do you think--”

“Hold on.” Stiles looked down. “You’re dripping on my carpet.” Or, rather, his father’s carpet. Stiles grabbed an old T-shirt and a pair of flannel pants from a box next to his bed and shook them in Scott’s direction. “Go change into these, and then I’ll teach you everything I know, grasshopper.”

“Thanks,” Scott said, taking the clothes and heading to the bathroom. Before he shut the door, he turned back to Stiles. “You’re kinda cool, you know? In a weird way.”

 _High praise from a teenager_ , Stiles thought, when he was alone. He reclined on the bed to wait, frantically trying to recall how happy resolutions happened in romantic movies. While he pondered, the rain outside came down harder, and the wind picked up enough that it whistled past his windows. The first flash of bright lightning made him jump, but it meant he was ready when the loud crack of thunder hit, closely followed by another. It was gonna be a doozy of a storm.

He was just about to google the plot of 10 Things I Hate About You when his door swung open and Isaac leapt on his bed, grabbing one of Stiles’ pillows to use as a shield. Against what, Stiles wasn’t sure.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles asked cautiously, “are you afraid of the storm?”

The pillow twitched at approximately the level of Isaac’s head, so Stiles took that to be a nod, especially when another roll of thunder crackled and Isaac yipped and buried into Stiles’ side. He could feel the tips of Isaac’s claws digging into his arm a bit, so he figured Isaac must be pretty freaked out. 

“That’s okay. Plenty of people get scared of storms--”

Another crash, a whimper from Isaac and his door opened again revealing Lydia and Erica, with Jackson on a 10 second delay. They crowded into him, with Erica snuggled up to his other side, and Lydia beside Isaac. Jackson sat on the end of the bed, glaring furiously and clutching the comforter so hard, his fingers were bone white. 

"Hey. Fancy meeting you here." Erica mumbled something into his shirt, exhaling warm and shaky against his upper arm. "What was that?

"She said the thunder sounds like growling," said Lydia, helpfully. The rest of the kids nodded, even Jackson. 

That made sense to Stiles. Their instincts would have them cowering from the threatening sounds of a wolf who wasn't in their pack. 

"Well, you're welcome to hang out for a bit."

He was surprised that they'd chosen to invade his bed. He would've thought they'd be more likely to find their older siblings for solace. 

On the next book of thunder, Cora and Boyd stumbled in, trying their best for nonchalant. Stiles invited them into the massive bed with a jerk of his head. 

Stiles saw the need for the gigantic bed, then. Their limbs were tangled, and they cuddle close to each other, but it was still a tight fit. Isaac ended up mostly on top of Stiles to let Cora in beside Erica, and Scott, when he was finished in the en suite, sat with Jackson on the bed. 

Stiles’ bright idea was to talk until the storm passed. It worked marginally well. He chatted to no one about anything and everything(while keeping it rated E for everyone). Every few minutes, however, the thunder would shake the house, and the kids would shiver in response, and the younger kids’ eyes would flicker yellow-gold. Clearly, he decided, his master plan wasn’t working. 

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, untangling himself from the puppy pile. He moved a few small boxes out of the way to reach a giant plastic tub, and he took the lid off with a flourish. “We’re gonna play Rock Band so loud, the thunder will be scared of us.”

“Rock Band?” Asked Cora. “We don’t know how to play any instruments.”

“You’re seriously deprived, girl, but that’s the beauty of this game.” He brandished a guitar controller and the kids started to move off the bed. “You don’t need to actually have any musical talent. I’m the perfect example.”

His father had always said that if he put as much thought and effort into real instruments as he had into the simulation, he’d be a virtuoso. Stiles had been mildly obsessed with the game when it had been having it’s hey day. Despite the fact that he didn’t have enough friends to play all the instruments he’d bought, his pre-pubescent brain had convinced him that if he had the tricked out drum kit, the keyboard, 2 microphones and 3 guitars, he would suddenly find himself with company to play them with. It hadn’t worked in Beacon Hills, but at college, they’d gotten some use. He’d thought about leaving them behind when the car had picked him up that afternoon, but he couldn’t remember what he’d tossed in the bin, so he lugged them along. He’s grateful now for Past-Stiles’ foresight.

It only took him a few minutes to hook up the system and sort out all the wired to the instruments. Scott and Boyd moved the couch to give them a little more room. (That had been a surprise. He tended to forget how strong these kids were.) He started the game up, set it on the easiest song, and let them go to town. 

They were surprisingly good. For what they lacked in finesse, they certainly made up for in enthusiasm and volume. Jackson was on drums, beating the life out of them in a way that could only be good for his anger management issues. Lydia’s voice was...strident was a kind word, and she could read the lyrics just fine. 

“Man, we could make a band with just Hales,” he enthused, when they finished their first song with a decent score. “That would be badass. Why hasn’t anyone ever thought of that? I’m clearly a genius.”

They did a few more songs with Stiles’ guidance, asking him to turn the volume up more and more as the thunder continued. Eventually, Stiles was able to leave them be with their inner rock gods firmly channelled. 

Erica and Isaac were both just a bit too young to participate in the video game, so Stiles broke out a bunch of smelly markers and some leftover poster board he’d used in his last project at school. With Stiles’ help with spelling, they sat down to make a bunch of “Hales R #1” signs so that they could be groupies. They’d only finished one, however, before the other kids drifted over to where they were laying on their stomachs. The posters turned into drawings pretty quickly after that, and they managed to fill every inch of the poster board between the eight of them.

It took Stiles a long time to realize that the kids weren’t afraid of the thunder anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Stiles' opinions on veganism are not my own.

Stiles woke up sticky and over-heated. Apparently, being on the bottom of a pile of werewolves is not a particularly comfortable experience, considering their resting body temperature.. Someone’s warm breath was tickling his neck, and he imagined he’d reek if he sniffed himself. 

He was just wondering if he should try to detangle himself from the mess of limbs--was that a foot above his head?--when someone’s stomach gave an almighty growl of displeasure. A chorus of giggles followed, as well as a hasty apology from Scott. 

Stiles shooed the kids off to their own rooms, then hopped in his shower. He was still mostly asleep until he was drying off, but he managed to do it pretty quickly. After he was dressed, he went to help the younger kids start the day. Only Isaac and Erica needed any assistance, and Erica just needed help with buttons. 

As he was picking a shirt for Isaac, he noticed that all of the clothes in his bureau were nearly identical to the ones they were wearing yesterday...plain, loose and beige, with few fastenings and even fewer seams. 

“Odd,” he muttered, as he picked one at random.

“What is?” Asked Erica.

“You are,” he said, and she shook a finger at him, but couldn’t hide her smile.

When the three of them entered the kitchen--He was glad he hadn’t tried to find it himself--Scott and Boyd were already scooping out breakfast from a pot on the stove. 

“You guys don’t need me at all,” he joked, and Boyd gave him a look that was far more unimpressed than he’d thought a 12 year old could look.

Scott handed him a bowl, and he joined the short line of kids getting their grub. When Boyd scooped him a ladle of grey, lumpy sludge, he had vivid memories of the week he’d seen the movie “Oliver” and had nightmares for weeks in which his mom would refuse to cook him grilled cheese sandwiches ever again.

“What is this sh--stuff?” 

“It’s oats. And maybe other stuff, we’re not sure,” said Cora, already at the table and swirling her spoon in the gruel, mixing in what Stiles assumed to be soy milk, going by the carton on the table.

“Who made it?” Stiles asked, peering into the giant pot and cringing at the bubbles erupting in slow motion in the bottom of the pot.

“Cook. She makes everything. Daddy says that she’s one of California’s top vegan chefs.”

His bowl made a clattering sound on the counter beside the stove. “Vegan? Are you all vegan?”

“Shut up, we’re not vegan!” Jackson shouts from the table. “I’m gonna tell Daddy you called us that.”

“You shut up, dummy.” Lydia tossed her hair in Jackson’s direction, narrowly missing her glass of orange juice. “It just means that we don’t eat animals.”

“We aren’t really,” Scott clarifies. “Not completely. We just don’t eat that much meat.”

“For god’s sake, why?” Even Stiles wasn’t cruel enough to force a vegan diet on his father.

Scott shrugged. “He says that rampant carnivorism gives the wrong impression.”

Stiles’ mouth snapped shut, and he took his spot at the table quietly. He felt like an a class A butthead. He’d never given a thought to how other people might react if they thought a family of werewolves ate nothing but red, bloody meat three times at day. He himself hadn’t ever felt the need to censor his food choices to send the right message to the world at large.

Then again, he wasn’t a part of a persecuted racial minority. The whole thing just seemed massively unfair.

‘What does?”

He looked up, surprised, at Boyd, who’d asked the question. He realized that he’d been staring down at his bowl for the last few minutes, and that he’d accidentally spoken out loud. It didn’t matter, though, because he’d made up his mind. 

“Finish some of this crap, so you don’t pass out from hunger, then we’re going out.” 

There was a clamour of what? Where? from the kids, but Stiles only grinned as he scooped up as many bites as he could stomach of the gloopy oatmeal. When they were all as finished as they were ever going to be, they ditched their dishes in the sink and Stiles instructed them to put on their shoes.

Stiles was almost through the door to the garage when he heard Scott ask, “aren’t you going to get the credit card?”

“What credit card,” he asked, but he thought he could guess.

“This one.” Scott plucks the piece of plastic from a end table drawer next to the coat rack. “It’s the one Dad gives to all the sitters to use if they need something. It doesn’t really have a limit.”

It had probably been mentioned in the information on the tablet. The one that Stiles had completely forgotten under a pile of books on his bureau upstairs. _Mature, responsible adult_ , he reminded himself as he tucked the card is his wallet. _Mature_ , responsible _adult._

The keys to the fleet of cars in the garage were colour coded, so it wasn’t difficult to find the right one for the eight-seater van, and get everyone strapped in for the ride. The journey was long enough that the kids were getting bored, and it was only thanks to Boyd’s steady hand on the radio dial that they didn’t end up with a full scale war on their hands. 

They pulled into the parking lot of Stiles’ favourite diner and unloaded the van like a clown car. There was only one curved booth big enough to fit all eight of them, and it was taken up by a trio of teenagers, so Marie, Stiles’ favourite waitress, allowed them to push a bunch of small tables together. He sat with Isaac on his right, and Lydia on his left, and demanded that they all be provided with paper placemats and crayons for colouring, not just the younger kids. 

“Hey, Stiles,” Marie said when they were settled, “who are these cuties?”

The kids all shouted their names at once, and Stiles muttered, “Derek Hale’s kids” to Marie so she got the information she wanted. She raised her eyebrows, but smiled sincerely at the group. 

“Well, what can I get y’all today?”

Stiles figured sharing was caring in this sort of situation, so he ordered a platter of the diner’s best offerings.. Scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, and pancakes were soon delivered to their table, along with some french toast that Marie whispered were on the house. 

The Hale children’s eyes went wide at the sight of so much protein, but they didn’t immediately grab for the food. They waited patiently for Stiles to dish out a reasonable amount, though they all laughed when Scott’s stomach growled again. Soon, the only sound at the table was chewing and happy growling noises as they worked their way through the piles of pork and carbs. Jackson only threw one pancake, and immediately had his syrup privileges revoked. 

While he ate his own breakfast, Stiles kept watching the faces of the other patrons of the diner, taking stock of the “aw, so cute’s” and the “look, how precious’s.” He also made careful note of the blank faces, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out if anyone was looking at these kids and painting them with some stereotype of a ravening beast.

“Can I get yous anything else?” Asked Marie, when most of the platters were empty.

“‘Yous’ is not a w--”

“Yes, thank you Lydia,” Stiles interrupted. “No, we’re fine, just the bill.” 

Loading the van to leave took a little longer than it had to get there, but eventually, they were all strapped in, Stiles in the driver’s seat with the gold credit card with Derek’s name on it burning a hole in his pocket.

“So, I gotta ask,” he said, apropos of nothing. “What’s with the weird clothes?”

Cora and Jackson erupted in protest, but Boyd spoke over them from the seat behind Stiles. “It’s traditional werewolf clothing. No harsh dyes, metal clasps or synthetic fibres. It’s supposed to help us maintain control by eliminating stress on our heightened senses.” He sounded like he was reciting a memorized speech, and Stiles could guess who he learned it from. 

“Does it work?”

“Maybe,” Boyd’s placid face twitched in annoyance. “When we were Isaac’s age.”

“I don’t think any fabric could be uncomfortable enough to make me lose control like Dad thinks we would,” says Cora, from the very back seat.

“I don’t know. Have you ever worn spandex? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

That led to loud and horrified protestations, as they all tried to get the image of Stiles in full-body spandex out of their heads. They were finished by the time Stiles arrived at the Walmart on the edge of town, though, and were quite happy to accompany him inside. 

When they reached the apparel section, he addressed them as a group. “So, here’s the thing. All this beige cotton is killing my soul just a little bit. If this relationship is going to work, we’re both going to have to make some sacrifices. It’s me, not you.” 

The kids looked at him blankly, while Scott cracked up. At least someone appreciated his humour. “I don’t care what you want to wear, but pick some things that’ll last you about a week. Sound good?”

The bright smiles that bloomed on their faces were worth the shopping trip. At Stiles’ dismissal, they spread out through the store, only Isaac sticking by his side. For him, they found a bunch of cozy sweaters in pastel colours, still comfy and plain enough to not bother his skin, but just as exciting as his siblings’ new digs.

Stiles claimed a bench by the fitting rooms, offering advice whenever any of them would poke their heads out the door, and the “yes” pile in the cart grew larger. Lydia filled it with pink and purple frilly things, Cora stayed more to practical jeans and dark coloured shirts. Erica, it seemed, had bypassed regular clothing entirely, and gone straight to the costume section, trying on outfits for ballerinas, dinosaurs, princesses and firefighters. When she tossed her armfuls in the cart, she stared him down, as if she expected him to put up a fight, but he merely shrugged and told her red was definitely her colour(as if he knew anything about what “her colour” was.)

Eventually, the kids wandered over to his bench with their purchases, and Isaac started to get cranky from the busy morning and late night previous. Stiles did a head count, and found they were only missing Jackson. He’d snagged the men’s changing room stall closest to the exit, so Stiles left the kids with Scott and went to check on his progress.

“Hey, cheekbones, how’s it going?”

A sharp, low growl, and the sound of popping stitches was the only response. Frowning, Stiles called the attendant over, and asked her to unlock the door from the outside. She was employed at a soul-sucking department store chain for minimum wage, so she did it without questioning him before returning to hating her life at the hanger rack. 

When Stiles opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of Jackson, standing in the middle of the stall, clenching his fists in a bright blue T-shirt, designed to look like a football jersey.

“You about ready to hit the road?” He tried, not liking the white knuckles and golden shimmer in Jackson’s eyes one bit.

“You can’t do this,” Jackson says, his eyes still trained on the shirt, though he looked at it like if it had a neck, he would have been wringing it.

“Do what?”

“Just come and change everything because you don’t like it. Dad’s gonna get mad at you, he’s gonna--” He broke off, his little claws punching holes in the shirt. “He’s gonna be so mad.” 

“Oh, it won’t be so bad,” he said, trying to de-escalate the situation, but Jackson wasn’t having it.

“You can’t do this!” He yelled, slapping the shirt to the floor. “You can’t...You can’t just--” Stiles was no longer sure if Jackson was talking to him anymore, or to himself. He seemed to run out of steam, but then, under his breath, he said. “We’re gonna be in trouble.” 

Stiles watched Jackson struggling with his emotions for a few moments, noting how the flickers of fear and sadness were masked by an almost comically angry glare, all directed at the ruined cotton on the floor, rather than Stiles. Quietly, and with no sudden movements, Stiles crouched down in front of Jackson, sidestepping the shirt.

“You can just blame me, alright?” He said, and Jackson’s eyes finally met his. “If your father’s angry. Just say ‘Dad, what was I supposed to do? I’m just a little boy, and he’s a big tough man!’ Your Dad will say “I understand, son,’” Stiles affected a gruff voice, which elicited a tiny smirk from Jackson, “and probably pat you on the head, or something.” 

Jackson’s eyes wandered to the shirt on the floor, and he mumbled, “you don’t know that.”

“I do. I promise.” Stiles took a chance, and reached out to palm Jackson’s shoulders. He was rewarded with the feeling of tension leaving them. “Don’t worry, Jackson. I’ll take the fall for you. No one’s going to blame you for anything. You can just be a kid.”

Jackson was quiet for a long time. After a minute, though, he shrugged his shoulders under Stiles’ hands, and gave a little nod. Stiles nodded back, and grabbed the shirt from the carpeted floor. Jackson followed him out of the changing room, scowl still in place, but Stiles thought it didn’t look as angry as usual. After adding the ripped shirt to the cart(Derek could surely afford for it), Stiles enlisted Lydia and Boyd to help find Jackson some more clothes to try on, while Scott and Cora tried to keep Erica and Isaac from getting too bored. 

Between the three of them, they quickly found enough clothes that Jackson liked. Stiles sent the kids to the car without him, while he steered the overloaded cart to the checkout. It was a long wait, since it was Saturday morning, and by the time he got back to the van to load up all the bags, everyone except Scott was completely zonked out. It was a pretty long drive from this end of town to the Hale property, so Stiles figured that could only be a good thing. 

“I get why Dad does things the way he does,” Scott said, when they were on the road. Stiles realized that with his hearing, he would have heard every word of Jackson’s meltdown. “He wants us to be safe and happy, and he thinks that the clothes and the food and everything is the way to make sure we are.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Stiles kept his eyes on the road in front of him while Scott took his time answering. 

“I think there’s more than one way to be happy.” In Stiles’ peripheral vision, he saw Scott scrub a hand over his face. “He’s away a lot, but when he’s home, he’s never been anything but good to us. He makes sure to spend time with each of us, and he calls us when he has to be gone. I know how hard it is to keep from showing how sad he is. How much he misses everyone. He was only 20 when my parents died, and suddenly he had three kids to deal with, plus Jackson, who was only a baby. He did the best he could. It’s hard to be mad at someone when you can smell the guilt on them as strongly as you can on Derek.” Scott drummed his fingers on his knees, and it took him several tries to say, “But, sometimes I wish he’d just forget all that stuff, all the things he thinks will makes us content and well-adjusted and just...”

“Give you a giant, bone-crushing hug?”

Scott laughed, breathlessly. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” 

They made the rest of the drive in silence, and Stiles was grateful. He had a lot of thinking to do about these kids, their quiet, meticulously scheduled life and Derek Hale.


	5. Chapter 5

The Hale kids were homeschooled, Stiles was unsurprised to find out. As the live-in babysitter, his job was remarkably easy, when it came to making sure they were on track with their studies. Each of the kids(except Isaac) had a binder and a laptop, pre-loaded with the day’s lessons. There was a certain amount of leeway they had with their schedule, but every change had to be run by Stiles before the end of each school day. If any of them were stuck on a problem, they could take the time they needed to understand it, even if it meant they had more to do the next day.

Stiles was there mostly for the younger kids. Scott, at 15, was basically independent, and Stiles was grateful for that. He couldn’t remember shit from his junior year math classes, and wouldn’t have been able to be much help if Scott hadn’t had his online tutors to live chat with. As it was, he typically answered a few questions about tricky topics, and helped Isaac and Erica go over their alphabet.

He got better at teaching the kids as he learned their learning styles. By the end of his second week with the Hale household, he’d learned that Jackson got frustrated easily if he didn’t get something perfect right away, and needed to be reminded of all the things he’d done right, so he wouldn’t focus on the things he’d done wrong. He discovered that Cora would sit at her corner of the desk in silence for hours, rather than let Stiles know she was having trouble. Lydia was miles ahead of any 8 year old should be, in math, language, and the impromptu science experiments Stiles had them do when he got bored. 

He helped them the way his mother had helped him, when he’d been failing almost every subject prior to discovering Adderall. He also tried to help them the exact opposite way his least helpful teachers had. It seemed to be working, since they hadn’t had any school-related disasters. At least, none that a little googling couldn’t fix.

Outside of the hours they spent in school, Stiles basically disregarded the schedule altogether. Deaton had left to join Derek in New York at the end of the first week, so it wasn’t like anyone would get him in trouble. The calendar app literally had blocks of time devoted to “fresh air exposure” and “brain stimulating leisure activity.” Instead, he drove them around town to any place from the Laser Tag place to the grocery store. Sometimes he left Scott and Boyd home for some much-deserved alone time, but often they opted to join the group. 

About a month after Stiles had come live with them, he invited his dad over for dinner. He told the cook to take the day off(He had a hell of a time finding her to do this…the woman was a ghost.), and bought enough steak, potatoes and corn on the cob to feed a small army. Stiles was still supplementing their (mostly) vegan diet with his favourite animal products at every opportunity, but they still hadn’t had much red meat in their lives. 

Stiles had heard through the grapevine that the Sheriff had been doing an admirable job sticking to his diet, even without his son there, so he figured the man could afford a treat. 

The Sheriff arrived just in time to start the steaks on the small, yet serviceable new barbecue(thank you Derek’s credit card.), so Stiles sent him out with the kids to cook while he finished peeling the potatoes. 

“Does your dad like his job?” Scott asked, from the other side of the island where he was chopping potatoes to go into the gigantic pot. 

“Very much. He was born to be a cop.” Just like Stiles had always thought he, himself, was. He looked up from the tomatoes he was slicing for the salad. “Why?”

“I thought maybe…” He stopped and started chopping a potato with unnecessary force. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Stiles throw a piece of tomato at Scott’s face. It didn’t connect, but it still made Scott look up in surprise. 

“Come on,” Stiles said, grinning at Scott’s affronted face, and the tomato seed he was wiping off his cheek. “What’s on your mind?”

Scott nervously ran a potato starch-covered hand through his dark hair and stared down at his cutting board. “I don’t know. I thought maybe, after I’m finished with high school, I might like to be a cop.” 

Stiles was silent for a few moments. He knew the statistics of the profession. One of his dad’s deputies was a werewolf. Just one. And he was the only werewolf cop in any of the surrounding counties. 

“I know it’s kinda dumb.” Scott told the potatoes under his hands. "Dad’s been telling me how to deal with cops as a werewolf civilian since I was twelve. It’s crazy to think I could be one of them, instead.”

Stiles wanted to scream at the injustice of the world. He knew what Derek had probably told Scott, and saw the need for it as clearly as he saw the unfairness. _Don’t show them your eyes. Keep your identity as a werewolf close to the chest. Absolutely do not aggress, if you want to keep a wolfsbane bullet out of your chest._ Every few months, it seems, on the news, there was some new story of a werewolf man dead after a struggle with police, or after a raid gone wrong, or just a wrong place, wrong time tragedy. 

He thought of Boyd, who had two counts against him, and how, at 12, he would soon have to be given the same talk Scott had had. Derek Hale was wealthy, yes. One of the shockingly small percentage of werewolves who lived above the poverty line. But that didn’t mean that his sons could walk down a darkened street with their eyes flashing without fearing for their lives. 

Stiles put down his paring knife and made sure he had Scott’s full attention. “Listen to me, Scott. I want you to know, right now, that you can be a cop, if you want to. You can do whatever the hell you want, werewolf or no.”

Scott looked dubious for a long moment, then smiled his sunny, goofy smile and went back to chopping the last potato. They worked in silence after that, but it was an understanding one.

Jackson ran into the kitchen a little while later, yelling Stiles’ name. “Is it ready yet?”

“Nope. 10 more minutes for the potatoes, then it’s chow time. If you’re so eager, though, you could take these plates out to the porch and ask if someone would help you set the table.”

Jackson slumped over to grab the plates, but he didn’t bother to complain about it, which Stiles thought was a battle won.

Somehow, they were all able to crowd around the long picnic table that Stiles had rescued from the garage, and they fell upon the food, the younger kids making little rumbling noises of appreciation. All the steak, as well as the buttery, salted corn disappeared, though there was some salad left. Stiles only made the kids bring their dishes to the kitchen, then he cut them loose.

The Sheriff helped him clean the disaster area that was the kitchen, and in no time, they were standing by the large windows above the double sink, Stiles washing and his dad drying. He didn’t mind the task, especially nights like this, when he could see the kids playing in the sprawling backyard, the sun setting and turning everything dark blue, and the trees of the preserve standing tall behind them. 

“You’re different, son.” 

“Hmm?” His dad had been fairly quiet all day, though the kids had loved his Dad Jokes at dinner. “You’re just noticing that now? I would’ve thought my father had noticed my oddness long ago.”

The Sheriff ignored his teasing. “It’s only been a month since you’ve been working for the Hales, and I think you’ve changed. It’s like someone has replaced my 23 year old man-child of a son with an actual adult.”

Stiles shoved him with his shoulder. “Imagine that. Hanging out with a bunch of kids all day made me more mature.”

“It has. Definitely.” The Sheriff set dry platter on the counter and opened the fridge. He pulled out one of the beer cans he’d brought with him and handed it to Stiles before snagging one of his own. “I think you’re ready for your training in September. Not sure I could have said that out loud five weeks ago.”

Stiles watched Lydia tackle Cora with all the strength her human body could give, and smiled at stubborn, stoic Cora break her sister’s fall as they both collapsed to the soft grass, shrieking and laughing. 

It hurt to think about leaving in September. He didn’t know if they would be getting another live-in nanny to replace him, or if the mysterious Ms. Blake who Deaton had mentioned in passing would be taking over. Regardless, Stiles reminded himself as he sipped the disgusting light beer, he could always visit. It wasn’t like he was going to be a million miles away. Stiles was going to go to the police training school, ace all his classes and be one of his father’s deputies in no time. He was going to do the job he’d wanted to do since he was just a kid. 

He wished he felt as sure of it as he did when he was 8.

***

It was just past noon when the car slowed to turn up the driveway to the house, but Derek had lost all concept of time somewhere over Iowa. His eyes stung liked he’d been rolling in sand, and he felt he’d been put through a wringer. He didn’t even think it was jet lag any more. He was fed up, at a bone deep level. 

Various bureaucratic snafus had kept him away from Beacon Hills for almost a month, which was far longer than he’d ever meant to be away. He’d been so busy that he hadn’t even carved out the time for his weekly Skype session with the kids. 

The car slowed to a stop, and Derek pushed open the door before his driver could come around. He had less than five minutes before Jennifer and Peter would arrive in their own vehicles. Perhaps if he hurried, he could grab a cold shower before they got there, so he could be a bit more alert when the children met Jennifer for the first time. This result of this meeting was going to determine a lot of things, and neither of them wanted it to go badly just because Derek could have used a couple more hours of sleep on the plane. 

He was almost to the door when he became aware of sounds coming from the edge of the property. It was his children. Laughing, and...howling?

“What the hell?”

***

“Get him!”

 _Oh, crap_ , Stiles thought. It was all over now. He’d managed to hide pretty well, since the smell of the preserve was so pungent, and his young werewolf charges weren’t used to all the sensory input, but someone had spotted him, so it was only a matter of time before he was--

“Oof!” He suddenly had an armful of Erica, and they hit the ground with a thud. 

“I found you!” She cried, shrill enough that her siblings, who were emerging from the trees, winced at the pitch.

“So you did.” 

Their eyes flashed shades of bright yellow, as bright as the spots of sun that were shining through the trees on the thick bed of grass and leaves Stiles was lying on. After congratulating Erica on her win, the other kids, even Jackson, laid down next to him, limbs tangling and voices rising up to where the sky peeked between the branches.

They’d done this every afternoon for the past week, since the weather was so nice. They hurried through their morning school work, and as soon as they were finished, raced out to the preserve to chase each other and tumble and wrestle in the fallen leaves. They’d had to learn how to be gentle with Lydia and Stiles, since they were both human, but they’d learned quickly. Scott hadn’t known his own strength, and had bruised his sister exactly once. Never again.

In all the time Stiles had been with them, he hadn’t seen them so happy as when they were here, with their pack, in their territory, werewolf characteristics on full display, without worry of judgement or disapproval.

“Hey,” he tilted his head up, to where Jackson was sprawled above his head, tossing pieces of grass at Lydia. “Last week you told me you’d teach me how to howl.” More like, he’d made fun of Stiles’ pitiful attempt to call the kids to the kitchen like their father had that first day. 

“You won’t be able to do it right, you’re not a werewolf.” Jackson replied, and flicked a blade of grass at Stiles’ face.

Stiles sputtered, then ripped a handful of of grass to throw at Jackson. “Oh yeah? Try me. Give me some pointers, and I’ll give it my best shot.”

Jackson and the rest had some tips, but the most helpful were from Lydia, whose howl facsimile was damn impressive from Stiles’ point of view. “Just let go” was her main point. Stiles could do that. 

Throwing his head back into the dirt, he belted out a sound that could loosely be called a howl. If the listener was drunk. And partially deaf. Jackson cackled, and the rest of the kids groaned, but they let out an answering chorus of their own howls, and the forest sang with the sound of their lazy summer afternoon. It echoed throughout the forest, and Stiles was pretty sure they could be heard clear across town.

“See? I told you I’d ace it.” He got to his feet, brushing off dirt and stray bits of leaves. “Last one back to the house is a butt head stupid face.”

“Noooooo!” Cried Isaac, and he took off down the small slope to the path they usually followed. The rest of the kids would let him win, like always, since he took Stiles’ taunts so seriously. 

Isaac was the slowest of them, so the rest of the kids could take their time, pushing and tackling each other on and off the path, with Stiles bringing up the rear. He smiled as he watched them sink their fangs into each other’s clothes and throw their small, yet powerful weight around. 

Scott was the first to stop, abruptly, and within seconds, the rest of them had come up short. Isaac, in the distance, stopped as well, but soon after, he doubled his pace, shouting “Daddy!” as he sprinted the last few yards toward where Derek stood.

Isaac started climbing up his father’s clothes, using Derek’s knees and hips to lever himself to his neck. Soon, Derek was swarmed by the rest of his children, who were growling happily and letting their eyes turn bright to greet their alpha. 

Derek cut them off with a growl of a different kind. At the sharp, low sound, they all stepped back, and scrambled into the line that Stiles had first seen them in, back when they were stiff and angry and silently begging for freedom. 

“What is this?” Derek demanded. 

The kids remained silent, so Stiles answered, “It’s leisure activity time.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red, and his lip curled in a silent snarl. “This is completely unacceptable.” He turned his attention back on his children. “You all know better than this. You’re filthy, uncontrolled, and you’re acting like animals.”

“Wait, it wasn’t--” Stiles tried to interrupt. 

“Get back to the house. Clean up. Start acting like human beings,” Derek bit out, then pointed in the direction the children were to go. 

They hurried away through the trees, Scott stopping to pick a sniffling Isaac up in his arms. Stiles watched them go, and before they disappeared from view, Jackson turned and pinned him with look so full of anger, blame and hurt that Stiles’ throat closed up, and his stomach turned icy. 

Derek waited in silence until they were out of earshot, then rounded on Stiles. “Explain yourself, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Explain what? That your kids were playing outside?” 

Derek’s face turned murderous, and Stiles had to fight not to take a step back. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“You know what? I don’t think I do.” Stiles crossed his arms to keep them from gesturing wildly in the space between them. “Why don’t you lay it out for me?” 

“Very well. My children were out here, in the woods, running around like street urchins, howling like animals--”

“Just like you taught them. Just like I’ve heard you encourage them to do, when you called them to you like dogs without even using their names.”

Derek’s eyes slid to the side, briefly, before returning with anger in them. “That is completely different. In the privacy of my own home--”

“So, as soon as they step out the door, they’re supposed to forget they’re werewolves? They’re supposed to stifle themselves and act like little child-sized robots until you tell them it’s okay to be who they are?”

“They’re supposed to be a credit to our race. Well-behaved, with full control over their instincts, just like any other human.” Derek’s arms were held tightly at his side, like he was holding back angry gestures as hard as Stiles was. “The entire town will have heard them. They’ll think that my children spend their time running around like savages.

“Who cares? They’re just a bunch of strangers, who really gives a shit what they think?”

“I do.” Derek pointed harshly to his own chest, knocking his expensive tie askew. “Mr. Stilinski, you may not be aware, but the Hale Foundation does important work--”

“Oh, I’m aware of the important work you do.” Google had been very informative. “Very noble, giving the rich people of the east coast a cause to throw money at without actually helping anyone.”

“Our efforts are essential, and our image is part of that,” he sounded like his words were being ripped directly from their polished website, from the blurbs posted next to stock photos of smiling families. “If public opinion is swayed by the behaviour of my children--” 

“Oh, come _on_! You said it yourself.” He flung his arms in the direction of the house. “They’re _children_. You can’t expect them to be perfect little zombies their entire life, just because you can’t man up and be a father to them, instead of a publicist.” 

The Preserve was silent, save for the sound of Stiles’ quick breathing. Derek seemed frozen, but his face was anything but cold.

Stiles clenched his fists and met Derek’s eyes calmly. “I’m not sorry I said that,” he blurted. “Your kids are so smart, Derek. They see so much more than you think. Jackson blames himself. Scott told me that when you leave, Jackson takes days to come out of his room, because he thinks it’s his fault that you don’t want to stay. He knows he’s the only reason you married his mother.”

Derek finally broke out of his furious silence to bark, “Shut up.”

“Lydia knows that you worry she’s too much like her mom. They never talk about her, but she told me enough. Just because Lyd’s human like her doesn’t mean she’s anything like that, and if you spent more time with her, you’d realize that. She’s quick, and stubborn, and sometimes a little selfish, but she’s also kind, and she will always be honest, no matter what.”

“Stop.”

Stiles advanced on Derek, his steps unsteady on the forest floor. “Scott has a girlfriend. Isaac decided to stop sucking his thumb a few weeks ago, and he’s doing great. Cora misses having an older brother instead of a dad. You’d know all these things if you actually listened to them, and weren’t so scared that your children are _monsters_.”

“That’s enough!” Derek roared, and this time, Stiles did take a step back. “Pack your things, Mr. Stilinski.” Derek said, barely above a whisper. “Your services are no longer required.” 

Stiles’ breath left him, and he flinched back, searching Derek’s face. He supposed he couldn’t be too surprised, but it still hurt. It hurt physically, in his chest. He felt like his neck was being squeezed by invisible hands, and his stomach squirmed sickly. 

“Fine.” It was all he could manage past his tight throat, and there was nothing more he could say, regardless. He stared at the ground as he pushed past Derek, his eyes stinging as he made his slow way back to the house to get his stuff together to leave. He stumbled a couple times over lumps he couldn’t see through the tears he was fighting. After a while, he heard Derek’s footsteps a few yards behind him, and it made him irrationally furious. 

The man couldn’t even let him savour his exit.

***

Derek followed behind Stiles, watching him crash through the brush in a way that would have made Derek’s conservationist father wince. 

_Who does this kid think he is?_ Derek thought. He’d lasted longer than most of the other sitters, but one month was hardly enough to become the world’s leading expert on the Hale children. Derek’s anger was still simmering at Stiles’ accusations, but he couldn’t deny that Stiles knew things he didn’t.

Scott, having a girlfriend? Isaac giving up his favourite comfort? Why didn’t he know about these things? What did his children talk about in their Skype sessions, if not themselves? Their school work, the conversations they had with their siblings, movies Stiles had shown them, a book Stiles recommended, Stiles’ father coming to visit. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. 

Stiles had just broken the treeline in the distance when Derek heard noises from the side of the house. It was his children, not cleaning up in their rooms like he’d told them, but still outside. 

And they sounded so happy.

Derek’s anger drained out of him, and he walked toward the sound of their giggling and their rapid-fire teasing and talking, drawn there like a sailor to a siren. 

The swing, Derek remembered, as they came into view. It’d been made out of a tractor tire, and hung by his father and his uncles, when Derek had been a child. It, and the tree it was firmly tied to had survived the fire that had killed the ones who made it, and after the renovation, Derek hadn’t been able to bear the thought of taking it down any more than he had the sight of his children using it for its intended purpose. It had sat unused all these years, gathering dust and birds nests. 

He watched Scott, Boyd and Cora pull back the heavy swing, and send Lydia and Jackson and Isaac flying. Erica was perched on the thick tree limb above the them, urging them faster and faster. 

“Derek!”

Jennifer waved from the porch, and he waved back, on autopilot. She stepped down and started across the grass toward him, Peter following slowly. Peter...who had been one of the group who’d strung the swing up in the first place. He seemed more subdued than normal, and he watched the kids the whole way across the lawn to where Derek was standing. 

“They’re just delightful! They gave me such a welcome.” She looked fondly over toward them. “We might have gotten a little distracted.”

He’d never heard them laugh like that. In all the years since his family had died, he’d never heard Boyd’s exasperation with Erica sound so fond, or seen Cora so willingly pulled into a group activity.

Or seen Jackson’s mischievous smile quite so blinding.

A dam broke in Derek, and he suddenly had to hold his children. Tell them he loved them, more than anything. He tripped a bit, in his haste to reach them, and Scott called his name, worried. 

He reached Cora first, and pulled her into his chest, resting his chin on her head, which was so much higher than it’d been the last time he did this. More of his children said his name, and rather than answer, he knelt and pulled in as many as he could reach. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, when they all crowded in. “I’m so sorry.”

Scott gripped his shoulder and hurriedly said, “Dad, stop, it’s okay. We--”

“Let me finish.” His eyes flashed alpha red, and Scott subsided. “I’ve been a terrible father. I know that. I’ll make it up to all of you, I promise.”

Jackson’s hand slipped into his, and he used what strength he had to pull Derek up and out of the tangle of children. He tugged him toward the swing, and silently clambered on. Once he was settled, he pinned Derek with a yellow stare, and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Well? You’d better get started.”

***

It was an odd thing to be overjoyed and heartbroken at the same time. Stiles watched from the tall windows in his bedroom as Derek walked toward his kids like he had a rope around his waist, and fell to his knees to pull them closer. It looked like a new beginning, from what he could tell. 

So, to say he was happy wouldn’t be a lie. It wouldn’t be the truth, either. 

It hadn’t taken him long to put his essentials into his duffle. He’d have to have Derek send him the rest of his stuff, or he’d be there all night, packing, and Derek had sounded pretty eager to have Stiles out of his sight. It was tempting to stay longer, to watch the family play together on their awesome tire swing, but Stiles knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Time for his walk of shame. 

He was already out the front door when he realized that he’d have to ask Deaton for a car to take him home. He tried Deaton’s cell, but, for once, it went to voicemail. Perfect. Stiles sighed, hefted his bag and changed course to the backyard to ask Alpha Hale himself to provide a car for his recently fired employee.

He rounded the corner of the house, and Erica saw him right away. 

“Stiles! Come and help Daddy push!” 

His stomach plunged again, and he forced a smile. “Not today, Hot Stuff. I’ve gotta get going.” 

An avalanche of “where” and “why” followed, and the group of them started to climb off the tire, but Derek’s voice broke through the clamour. 

“You don’t need to go anywhere.” 

Stiles blinked, and let his bag fall to the grass beside him. He crossed his arms, attempting to rein in his burgeoning hope. 

“You were right about everything,” Derek continued, his eyes glinting just slightly with red. “I was wrong. Please stay.” 

Stiles let him sweat for a minute, but inside, he was dancing. “You want me to push, you, eh? What, your dad can’t make it go all the way around like I can?”

He jogged to the swing while they all laughed, and took his place beside Derek, who probably wouldn’t even notice Stiles’ additional strength. Their eyes met as they pulled the tire back to set it free, and Derek smiled at him for the first time in their acquaintance. Stiles grinned back, whooping as they let the tire swing forward. For a few more months, at least, Stiles was happy to be here, with this family, grumpy father included.


	6. Chapter 6

On a hot July day, the small pond in the middle of the preserve was perfect for a family of werewolves. The echoey indoor public pool was harsh on their sensitive ears, and they’d informed Stiles that he didn’t want to know what their powerful noses could smell. 

So, with towels, life jackets, and picnic blankets in tow, they walked along the familiar path to the water. Peter had, unsurprisingly, elected to stay clean and dry at the house, but Jennifer had accepted the invitation. “You won’t catch me deeper than my ankles, though,” she said, and left her bathing suit at home. 

In the confusion of getting everyone ready to go, Stiles had forgotten his own towel, and had to run back to the house to get it, waving Jennifer and the kids to go on without him. When he’d fetched it, he jogged across the lawn to the trees, hoping to catch up to them.

At the edge of the treeline, Derek was talking on his cell phone, tense and pacing. Stiles slowed his run, and changed direction to head toward him. 

“It’s a minor issue. Frank can deal with it own his own,” Derek was saying. He looked up when Stiles approached, rolling his eyes apologetically. “I know, but tell him to put his big boy pants on. I’m not coming back, not for at least another two weeks.”

Stiles snorted and looked down at his flip flops while Derek continued to extricate himself from the conversation. He felt underdressed next to Derek’s jeans and henley, but it hadn’t made sense to wear anything beyond his swim trunks to the water. 

“Peter will do what Peter wants,” Derek continued. “If you think I could do a better job of convincing him, you’re sadly mistaken.” He paused, wincing as he switched his iPhone to his other ear. It had to be overheated now, from how long he’d been doing damage control. 

Stiles sighed loudly, and tapped his invisible watch in Derek’s direction. Derek shot him a weak glare, then gestured helplessly to the phone. In the week Derek had been back, he’d spent a quarter of each day trying to pull enough strings that he wouldn’t have to leave again, and it was stressing him out, Stiles could tell. 

Backing up a few feet, Stiles pitched his voice high and yelled, “Daddy! Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” 

Derek covered his face with his palm, but Stiles could see his lips twitching. “Did you hear that, Sandra? I really have to go. Yes. I will. No, I really can’t talk any longer. My kid needs me,” Derek raised his brow in Stiles’ direction. “He scraped his knee or something. Bye. _Goodbye_ , Sandra.”

“Finally,” Stiles jibed, and tossed his towel at Derek’s face. He caught it before it connected, and threw it back to Stiles, who didn’t.

“That was pathetic,” Derek drawled, and tucked the the phone back in his pocket. He started walking in the direction of the pond, leaving Stiles to follow. “There’s no way she actually thought you were a child.”

“It worked, though, didn’t it?” He poked at the phone in Derek’s pocket, then whipped his hand back, heat rising in his cheeks. Thankfully, Derek didn’t comment. Could werewolves smell embarrassment?

“At the cost of your dignity.”

“Nah, I lost that the day Erica cast me as Elsa in her Frozen reenactment. Blue eye shadow really isn’t a good look on me. 

“Oh, come on, Stiles. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Let it go.”

“I hate you.” 

Three weeks ago, right after Derek had decided to let Stiles stay, he’d thought Derek was just putting up with him for the sake of the kids, and hated his guts. It took him three days to figure out that, no, Derek really was just a stoic kind of guy, and that grumpy was his default expression.

Their interactions had been awkward at first, Derek not sure what to make of Stiles’ weirdness, and Stiles trying desperately fill the silences Derek left. They bonded over a common interest in the children, however, and after just a few weeks, Stiles wouldn’t hesitate to call Derek a friend.

The way they took wasn’t a path so much as a game of hopscotch. There were still trees, bushes and thick piles of leaves in the way, but not as thick as it was in other parts of the preserve. After a couple of minutes of walking, Stiles tripped on a root and Derek had to catch him around the waist to keep him from falling on his ass. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, when he’d righted himself.

“No problem. Try to keep from killing yourself before we get there.” 

“I’ve survived this long. Barely. Apparently my clumsiness comes naturally. Dad told me that Mom used to get so black and blue from tripping on things that people used to give him funny looks.”

Derek smirked, breathing out harshly in an almost laugh. “Not exactly the most useful trait to have inherited.” 

“Nope. My mother’s overactive imagination seems to be the only other thing I’ve gotten, though she spent years trying to convince me I also had Dad’s devilish good looks.”

Derek snorted and Stiles let out an indignant “hey!” They engaged in a short shoving match that was cut short by Stiles actually toppling over into a bush. Derek was at his side immediately, apologizing profusely, even while Stiles cackled. Between the two of them, them managed to free Stiles from the brush. Stiles hissed as his arm bent, and he looked down to see a few shallow scratches.

“Owie,” he whined. 

“Do you need a bandaid?” Derek said, leaning in with an exaggeratedly sympathetic expression. “An ambulance? Tetanus shot? Want me to kiss it bet--”

“Stuff it, you. I’m wounded! Look, there’s actual blood.” Less than a drop, but still.

“Give it here,” Derek demanded, in his usual gruff manner. Stiles extended his arm without question. From his pocket, Derek pulled out one of the individually wrapped wipes that Stiles had suggested he start carrying, and started cleaning away the dirt and trace amounts of blood from Stiles’ arm. 

“Did I ever tell you why Isaac decided to quit sucking his thumb?” Stiles said, while he was working. 

Isaac had gotten startled while he had it is his mouth and he’d popped some fang. It made a little cut, and which would heal quickly, but the damage was already done. Isaac had seen the blood and screamed blue murder until the cut had healed. 

Derek laughed as Stiles recounted the story, told more to distract himself from the bite of the lemon flavoured alcohol than because Derek needed to know. When he finished with the tale, Derek still had Stiles’ wrist his grip, moving the tissue aimlessly over skin that was already clean. At the tail end of one of his cursory swipes, Derek’s thumb brushed against in the inside of Stiles’ wrist. Stiles jumped at the shock of warmth on skin that was chilled from the damp tissue, and pulled his arm away with a sharp intake of breath. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, quickly, and patted Derek on the shoulder with his uninjured hand. Derek smiled his tight almost-smile, the one Stiles used to be certain was a fake one, reserved for people he barely tolerated. Now, Stiles suspected he just wasn’t sure how to smile with teeth without breaking his face. “Guess I should be glad Isaac didn’t inherit his blood-phobia from you, huh?”

Derek’s eyes snapped down and to the side, and his smile(if he could call it that) slid off his face. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times before finally saying, “I’m not sure if he inherited anything from me.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrows in question. Derek looked like he was regretting what he said. 

“I don’t think Isaac’s actually mine. In the technical sense.” 

“Wait, what?” Stiles stopped and tried to face Derek, but he didn’t stop, just continued down the path, leaving Stiles to catch up. “Come on, you can’t just drop something like that and walk away.”

Sighing, Derek stopped, but he looked off in the direction that he probably heard his children’s voices coming from, though Stiles couldn’t hear anything but cicadas humming. 

“I can do math as well as you can,” he said, wryly. “Kate used to go away for weeks at a time, leaving the kids with whichever nanny we’d hired on to help her when I couldn’t be there. I never knew what she did, or where she went, but I didn’t really care. She’d always come back, eventually, and act like she’d never been gone. Sometimes, we’d,” Derek broke off, but Stiles nodded, and he continued, pink staining his cheeks, “sometimes, she’d come home and we’d have crazy, angry sex, then I’d feel guilty about it and leave again. Once, she didn’t come back for almost 2 months, and I’d already left for New York by that time. She told me she was pregnant over the phone, and I didn’t even think to ask when her due date was. It wasn’t until I came home that I found out she couldn’t be more a month along, and we hadn’t even been in the same state in that time. 

“Huh,” Stiles said, because, for once, he couldn’t summon anything else to say. 

“It didn’t matter much to me. It still doesn’t.” At this, Derek looked at Stiles, his eyebrows pulled in a frown. “He’s my son, and I love him.” 

“I know,” Stiles assured him, unsure why Derek seemed to care so much that he did. Stiles reached out, and awkwardly patted Derek’s shoulder, their easy camaraderie from before suddenly feeling inappropriate. Derek jerked his chin in a single nod, and started walking again. 

Stiles’ mind was still whirling, and he couldn’t help but ask, “So, you think Kate was sleeping with another werewolf? Wouldn’t you have smelled them or something?” Derek pinned him with an unimpressed glare, and Stiles held up his hands. “Sorry. Just wondering. And it’s hereditary, right? And Kate wasn’t a werewolf.” 

“Maybe I might have known, on some level.” Derek said, surprisingly calmly. “We barely knew each other for the whole duration of our marriage, so even if she’d told me outright, I wouldn’t have cared much. And to answer your question, I don’t really know if she was seeing a werewolf. Isaac was born human, like Lydia, so it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles exclaimed, for the second time. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“He doesn’t know. No one knew, beside me, Kate, and the doctors who delivered him.” Derek’s hands were clenched at his side, and he pitched his voice low, so only Stiles could hear. “He had underdeveloped lungs at birth, and they said he wouldn’t live more than a few hours, so I gave him the bite. If there’d been time, I would have waited until he could consent, just like Lydia, but I couldn’t--” Derek swallowed hard, and dug his blunt, human nails into his palms hard enough that Stiles could see his knuckles turn white. “I couldn’t see another one of my family die, no matter what Kate thought.” 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Stiles biting his lip to keep from filling it with flippant comments. Eventually, they grew close enough to the pond that Stiles could hear splashing and voices around the next bend. 

“For what it’s worth,” Stiles said, cautiously, sure his mouth was going to get ahead of him and eat his foot, “I think you made the right decision.”

“Thanks,” Derek said, and this time, his smile was a gentle curve of his lips, and it didn’t look like it was hurting him.

“And I don’t care what you say, Isaac is the spitting image of you.” Stiles pulled his best imitation of Isaac’s Serious Face, which, incidentally, happened to be also a pretty good impression of Derek’s Serious Face. Which Derek was pulling at that very moment. 

Derek curled his lip in a playful snarl and lunged at Stiles, missing only because he wanted to. 

“Yep,” Stiles crowed, and flailed out of Derek’s reach. “Like father, like son, can’t get enough of the world famous Stilinski Hug.”

This time, Derek growled and Stiles took that as his cue to turn tail and run to the water. When Stiles reached the bank, he charged right in, submerging himself quickly, then he turned around thumbed his nose at Derek, who was still fully clothed. 

Derek sighed longsufferingly and looked around at his children, as if for ideas on how to solve his predicament. When they only laughed in response, and tried to hide Stiles deeper in the water, Derek stripped off his shirt, tossed it to Jennifer for safekeeping and undid the fly of his jeans...revealing his black swim trunks beneath. Stiles shrieked and picked up Erica to use as a shield, and suddenly the game was Keep Stiles Away From Daddy. 

Derek won, and Stiles thought his punishment of getting his head dunked under water a couple times was pretty light, though he wasn’t going to argue. 

After Derek had finished with him, Stiles started gathering up towels and discarded sunglasses and sunscreen so that they could leave whenever the kids were finally convinced to leave the water. He returned Jennifer’s polite smile when she left her camping chair on the bank to help him. Stiles was just about to make the first suggestion that they head home when Derek’s sharp voice made him turn quickly.

“Jackson.”

Jackson froze with a guilty start when everyone looked at him, and he belatedly put down the newt that he’d obviously been seconds away from putting in Lydia’s hair. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Derek continued, his voice snapping like a whip. All of the kids were watching, frozen in place like the water was icy. “Because I know you weren’t about to traumatize your sister with that thing.”

Jackson shrugged jerkily and Stiles felt a pang of reluctant sympathy for him. Rhetorical Dad Questions were the worst.

“That is unacceptable behaviour, Jackson Friedrich Hale, and you know it. When we get back to the house, and we will be doing so immediately, you are to go to your room. No campfire for you tonight.”

Stiles and the rest of the Hales winced at the harsh punishment. Stiles couldn’t disagree that Jackson deserved it, but it was only the third of the newly instituted Hale Family bonfire nights, so he could imagine Jackson’s disappointment.

“Oh, come on, Derek,” Jennifer said. “It was just a prank. He didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“Any harm? He knows very well that Lydia’s nightmares--”

“I hate you!”

Everyone jumped, and looked toward Jackson, whose body was tense with anger, and whose eyes were shiny with hurt and betrayal. Stiles wasn’t shocked when Jackson turned on his heel and speed-walked toward the path, but he was surprised when Jennifer leaned down to block him, open arms beckoning. Jackson avoided her reach and barrelled past her, coming to a stop about an inch from Stiles. They both stilled, Stiles unsure if consoling him would undermine either of the other adults, and Jackson unable to physically take the comfort he needed.

Stiles made the decision for both of them. Kneeling on the muddy grass of the bank, he pulled Jackson in clutched him tight. Jackson was stocky for 9 years old, but Stiles still only came up to Jackson’s shoulders. Even without werewolf super hearing, Stiles could hear the frantic heartbeat of a shit-scared kid. _The honeymoon’s over_ , he was probably thinking. His Dad would be on the next plane to New York and it would be all Jackson’s fault.

“Hey, Cheekbones,” Stiles murmured, right next to Jackson’s ear. “You remember my dad, right?” A stiff nod. “When I was really young, I jumped off the garage with an golf umbrella, because I thought it would make me float. Nearly broke my arm. I’d never seen my dad so angry as he was right then, but I remember that his hands were shaking. He was scared.” Jackson shuddered with tension and pressed closer. Stiles can feel droplets of water drying on his back, itching and tickling, but he doesn’t dare pull away. “Bottom line is, you’re a kid. You messed up, did a stupid thing. It happens. It doesn’t mean your dad doesn’t love you, or that he won’t forgive you by tomorrow. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be mad, right?” 

Jackson sucked in a breath, let it out with a shaky exhale and dislodged himself from Stiles’s grip. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes were moist, and he rubbed a hand over them, leaving his face red and blotchy. Then, shoulders slumped, but human-shaped fingers relaxed, he sidled up to Lydia, mumbled some iteration of “sorry,” and just like that, the tension was gone. Between the kids, at least. Sensing that the watery fun was over, they chattered as they gathered their towels and shivered in the fading afternoon. 

Stiles stood and brushed off his knees, grabbing his own towel and the grocery bag of other beach-themed crap. He nodded at Derek as he passed, and took his place at the rear of the group. After a few minutes of walking, he fell in step with Jennifer, and could only kept his mouth shut for a couple more, before he blurted, “Um, sorry.”

“For what?” Jennifer asked, her pretty face dimpling in a smile that almost, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. For a second, Stiles panicked, and thought she might actually want him to answer that awkward question, but then she continued. “It’s fine. He knows you better than me. We’ll get there.”

“Oh, yeah!” Stiles jumped on the idea. “I bet you by the time I’m gone in September, they’ll prefer you to me anyway.” Stiles acknowledged that he may have been laying it on a bit thick.

“Ah, yes. That’s right.” Her smile brightened. “You must be excited to go back to your real calling, right?” 

“Totally,” Stiles said, and forced a smile, thinking of the calendar he had in his room, the one that was starting to feel like an hourglass running out of time too soon than the countdown to the start of the life he’d always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, sorry I keep accidentally writing all this unnecessary backstory. In The Sound of Music, no one particularly cared about the previous Mrs. Von Trapp, but in this version...it’s Kate. So, of course, even while I’m trying to just bang this out as quickly as possible, I get sidetracked by her awfulness. Oh well. Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Also, I spent half an hour researching newts because of this chap. None of the information I was reading was relevant beyond, “yes, there are newts in California,” but salamanders are goddamn fascinating, yo.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We gettin’ political up in this mother. Except, I don’t know anything about American politics. But it’s an AU, so I don’t caaaaaaaare!! Anyway, apologies for excessive world-building, I just can’t stop.

Derek smelled them instantly, even before he saw the tell-tale matched set of black SUVs taking up space in his driveway. He held back his growl by sheer force of will, but couldn’t suppressed his urge to grip Boyd’s shoulder as their driver pulled into the garage. 

With a few clipped words, he instructed the driver to take Boyd upstairs through the back way, along with their shopping bags. It was a bleak ending to what had been a nice day, just the two of them at Boyd’s favourite bookstore, catching Derek up on who Boyd was now. 

Pausing at the front door, Derek took a deep breath and put his wolf in check. The last thing any of them needed was for him to lose control before these people left his property. And they would be leaving soon enough.

Any business the Sterling Freedom Party had with Derek wasn’t anything he was interested in hearing.

The foyer was empty, but Derek cast his hearing throughout the house. The kids were upstairs, most of them in the common space of Stiles’ room. Boyd had already made it back to his own room, and from the sounds of it, was shelving his recent purchases. Derek relaxed a bit, but he could also hear that Jennifer was in the drawing room with them. He hastened toward the sound of their voices and barely restrained his strength when he opened the door to reveal his unwanted guests.

“Derek, there you are!” Jennifer rose from her place on the couch, placing her coffee cup down before she came to Derek’s side. “We were expecting you back half an hour ago.”

They’d been in his house, on his furniture, for _30 minutes_? “We were sidetracked.” Shopping for new books takes as long as it takes, Boyd had said. 

“Hale.” And oily voice interrupted. “Good to finally meet you. We seemed to have passed like ships in the night in New York.”

Not by accident. “Argent,” Derek bit out, pointedly not extending his hand to shake. 

Gerard Argent had burst onto the political scene a little over 10 years ago, starting off using the influence of his wealth to get friendly with the republicans before starting his own mini-party within them. He was supported by his son, Chris, who had appealed to the younger crowd, while he, himself, hobnobbed with older generations. They’d achieved a surprising amount of success, considering the vitriol they spewed about the dangers of allowing under-evolved species to mingle with humans. America liked to think it was beyond the days of werewolf oppression, but in reality, they’d barely scratched the surface, and people like the Argents knew that very well. 

“We were just catching up with Jennifer, here. Her,” Gerard paused and his lip twitched subtly, “partner and I used to do business together.” 

All successful werewolves within Gerard’s reach knew what business was to be done with the Argent family. Keep quiet, don’t support the Sterling Party’s opposition, and you’ll be left in peace. It was barbaric, and completely illegal, but despite their superior strength, werewolves were intensely aware of their disadvantage in numbers and influence. 

“Is that so,” said Derek, tightly. “Well, I’m happy you’ve had the chance to chat, but I think you’d better be going.”

“I don’t know about that,” Chris Argent speaks up from the corner, his smirk matching his Gerard’s, though Derek thought his eyes lacked the shark-like blankness of his father’s. “I thought we might stay for dinner.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s no room at our table for you. Sorry.” Derek pulled the door open, and stood, pointedly to the side. “Besides, we’re having sushi. I hear humans prefer their meat cooked.”

Gerard let out a soft laugh that set Derek’s teeth on edge. “Very well, then, we’ll take our leave.” Chris and the two silent suit-wearing bodyguards filed out, but Gerard stopped next to Derek and murmured, “We’ll talk again soon, Hale.”

Derek stood, frozen, until he heard their vehicles turn onto the main road, then he strode to the window, flinging them open to air out the scent of enemy pack. 

“Are you alright?” he demanded of Jennifer when fresh air poured into the room. 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she stammered, incredulous. “Why wouldn’t I be? I just asked them for coffee, not for full-contact football.” 

“You…” Derek’s brain went blank for a long moment. When it came back online, he asked, incredulous, “You _invited them_?”

“Of course I did.” Jennifer started to collect china and silverware onto the tray on the low coffee table. “What possible reason could they have to come here, otherwise?”

Derek’s shoulders tensed at her flippant tone. “It could be that he has his own reasons for wanting to insinuate himself here, in my home, _where my children live._ ” 

She plunked a mug on the tray with too much force, and whipped around to face him. “Oh, come on, Derek. You’re being dramatic. What harm could he do at an afternoon coffee date?” 

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him, if you’re so friendly?”

Jennifer’s laugh was humourless. "I think you overestimate our friendship. No one likes them, Derek.” She gave him a look like he was a slow child she pitied for not being able to keep up. “You just have to make nice with them until you’re sure they’ll lose. It’s in your best interest.” 

“Maybe it’s in yours, but not in mine!” Derek snapped, and Jennifer flinched back and sat heavily on the couch behind her. Derek saw his eyes flash in the mirror above the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, and he closed his eyes to calm himself, leaning into the open window. The ticking of the clock on the mantel didn’t do much to calm his anger, but the guilt that came rushing over him did. He didn’t turn when he heard Jennifer rise from the couch.

“I’m sorry you’re upset, Derek,” she said, pressing her body against his back and wrapping her arms around his chest. “Kali hated them too, but she acknowledged that keeping on their good side couldn’t hurt. I thought you’d feel the same.”

“I’m sorry for getting angry. You didn’t know.” He placed his hand on top of hers, somehow still surprised at it’s small size. “Just...don’t do it again.”

“Of course not.” For a moment, Derek thought that might be the end of it. “But, I think you need to consider meeting with them on neutral territory. You’ll never be allies, but letting them know you’re not an enemy--” 

“That’s not going to happen.” Derek moved her wrists off his chest and stepped away from the window. “This discussion is over.” He left her in the drawing room, and jogged up the stairs in search of his children, needing to hear their heartbeats steady against his own. 

Stiles didn’t put down the third Harry Potter book when Derek came in, he just smiled and kept reading. Derek perched on the edge of the bed, and tugged Erica backward into his arms. He listened to Stiles do all the voices, letting the smell of Erica’s hair, and the warmth and safety of his pack calm him. He could feel his phone in his pocket vibrating with texts and emails from Sandra in the New York office, but right then, he didn’t want to focus on anything more challenging than Stiles’ description of a hippogriff.

When the chapter came to an end, the kids whined with disappointment, but Stiles made them get up and go help Isaac and Erica change from the PJs they’d worn for their nap, as well as roust Scott and Boyd from where ever they were.

“Are they gone?” Stiles asked when the kids filed out of the room. “The Argents?”

Derek nodded, resisting the urge to look out the window, since he knew that he’d see an empty driveway.

Stiles puffed out a sigh of relief. “Thank god. What did they want?”

“You know who they are?” Derek asked.

“I read the news.” Stiles tossed the paperback onto his dresser and crossed his arms. “Those scumbags are on the front page every day it seems.”

“Can we go downstairs now?” Cora said, poking her head around the door. Isaac nudged past her and raised his arms for Derek to pick him up. 

“Yeah, of course, you must be hungry,” Stiles said, waving them on from where he was straightening the duvet on his bed. “Snack time half an hour ago.” 

Derek’s arms tightened around Isaac, and he felt a rush of gratitude toward Stiles. He’d made sure the kids were upstairs and in their rooms, rather than a few rooms away, in the kitchen having a snack like they normally would be. 

He’d kept them safe.

***

“Daddy?”

Stiles was grateful for Isaac’s interruption, as it turned Derek’s attention away from Stiles. He’d been slightly unnerved by the really intense look Derek had been giving him.

“Yes, baby?” Derek still used nicknames with an earnest unease that made Stiles smile.

“Did the bad men go away?”

Both Stiles and Derek stopped breathing for a moment as Isaac’s soft question sunk in.

“What bad men, sweetheart?” Stiles tried, hoping denial would work.

“The ones downstairs.” Isaac’s luminous blue eyes were wide in his face. “Daddy didn’t like them and Stiles made us hide, but it wasn’t like hide and seek.”

Derek hitched Isaac up in his arms and tilted his head so that their foreheads were touching. “Yes, Isaac. They’re gone. You’re safe.”

“Really? The whole pack?” 

“The whole pack.”

Isaac plucked the collar of Derek’s shirt, tugging on the buttons. “Even Stiles?”

“Yes, of course. Stiles too.”

“‘Cause Stiles is pack, right?”

Derek lifted his head from Isaac’s and looked toward Stiles, as if for approval. Stiles could only jerk his head in what he hoped resembled a nod. “Yeah. He’s pack.”

“But, he doesn’t--” he broke off with a frustrated growl. He gripped his father’s shirt tighter and stage whispered into Derek’s ear. “He doesn’t smell like pack.” 

Derek’s eyes widened minutely, and he looked toward Stiles again, speaking slowly, as if testing him out, “Well, with Stiles’ permission, you can--” 

“You need to do it.” 

Stiles watched Derek struggle with how to say no, but in the face of Isaac’s moist, pleading eyes, Stiles wasn’t surprised that Derek crumbled. “Do you mind?” 

Stiles had seen it before. Derek touched his children’s faces and arms all the time, purposefully dragging his scent on their clothes and skin, and allowing them to do the same. He rubbed his cheek against theirs so often that Lydia and Erica squealed and complained about his scratchy scruff, but leaned in to let him do it, regardless. 

“Uh, totally,” Stiles stammered. “I mean, yeah, go ahead.” 

Derek set Isaac down on the floor and approached Stiles cautiously, as he would to avoid spooking a horse. When he was inches away, Stiles sucked in a breath that he couldn’t seem to release and held it until Derek leaned in brushed his stubbled cheek against his. 

It was rough, but in that good way, like scratching an itch too hard. Derek’s warm breath tickled his ear, then felt almost damp on his neck as Derek smoothed his face down Stiles’ jaw. There was a moment, before Derek reversed his progress, that his lips touched Stiles’ throat, and they were warm. Stiles shivered at their warmth, then at their absence a millisecond later. 

Stiles didn’t know what to do with his hands. He felt like they should be doing something other than hanging limply at his sides, so he let them hover at the level of Derek’s elbows. They weren’t stuck there for long, as Derek lifted his own hands to slide them slowly from Stiles’ wrists to his forearms, then over the cotton of his T-shirt. Stiles could feel the heat of Derek’s hands through the thin material, then the brush of his thumbs at his collarbones.

Then, Derek dragged his face up the side of Stiles’, and inhaled deeply next to his temple, where Stiles was sure Derek would feel his pounding pulse. Stiles’ mouth dropped open and his stomach swooped. His throat closed and breath caught in his chest. 

Then it was over. Derek pulled away, and faced the door, where Jennifer stood, Lydia clutching her hand. 

“Lydia needs her hair braided,” she said, her smile stiff. “I’m not sure where you keep all the...everything.”

“I’ll take her. Thanks.” Stiles nearly stumbled on his way to the door, his leg muscles weak like he’d run a mile. 

Stiles speed-walked Lydia to the bathroom, sat her on the stool in front of the vanity and began pulling her long red hair into a French braid with shaking hands. He was an expert now, thanks to doll hair and YouTube videos. While he worked, he tried to rationalize himself out of his panic.

He’d never denied to himself that Derek was attractive. That would be stupid. He wasn’t blind, but he’d never even allowed himself to fantasize, since Derek was so out of his league that he wasn’t even in the same sport. That was even without Jennifer on the scene, which she most decidedly was.

The whole thing had been a completely platonic sharing of their scents, Stiles reminded himself, irritated with how unsettled he was feeling. Derek was doing Stiles the honour of making him welcome in the pack, and Stiles was imagining tension where there was none. And if he dreamed that night of stubble burn on places lower than his cheeks, then that was his problem, not Derek’s. 

“Next time, you’ll have to show Jennifer where we keep the elastics and stuff, huh?” Stiles said, to keep his mind from spiraling into the gutter. “Soon, she’ll be the one to do this for you.” 

“No, she won’t,” Lydia said, matter-of-factly.

Stiles paused in the middle of dragging back another chunk of hair. “Why not?”

“Because Daddy’s not going to marry her. He’s in love with you.” You idiot was implied.

Stiles was floored. “What? No! What?” Lydia raised her strawberry blond eyebrow at him in the mirror. “No.”

“Yes, he is. Last week, when we played Apples to Apples, he never took his eyes off you the whole game. Then, today, when he came up to get us, he looked at you like Scott looks when he thinks about his girlfriend.”

“I...” Stiles remembered that day. He’d been pointedly not looking at Derek, since his easy smile as he played the ridiculous card game had been doing warm, mushy things to Stiles’ insides. 

“But it’s okay, because I know you’re in love with him too.”

Stiles’ stomach sank. Lydia was so observant. She never missed a thing, and also never missed an opportunity to share her knowledge.

“It’s obvious. You like him just as much as you like us, which is a whole lot.” 

“Lydia.”

“You should go for it. He’s totally in love with you. He just doesn’t know it--” 

“Lydia, _stop_ ,” Stiles said, firmly. His fingers were stalled, pinching pieces of her hair with white knuckles. “Don’t...don’t say anything about this to your dad, alright?”

“Why not?”

“Just...just because, okay?” Stiles knew how much Lydia hated being placated with non-answers, but Stiles was barely keeping it together. Apparently, Lydia could sense that, because she pouted, but nodded in agreement.

Stiles quickly forced his fingers to plait the rest of her hair, then snap an elastic around the end of the clumsy braid. “Ok. All done. You can go downstairs for your snack.”

She hopped off the stool. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” For a second, Stiles panicked because she looked right through him like she could hear the lie, but then he remembered that she was human, and he felt bad for using it against her. 

After an encouraging smile from Stiles, she flounced away, hair swinging behind her, and his eyes stung as he watched her go around the corner. He waited until she would have made it to the kitchen, then made a beeline to his own room.

He pulled his duffle from the closet, throwing essentials into it while ordering a cab using the app on his phone, so that no one downstairs could hear him making the call.

Stiles sneaked off of the property without a goodbye, like a thief, brazenly robbing the place in broad daylight. Like a coward. As the car rumbled down the long driveway, he didn’t look back. 

He wouldn’t have seen past his stinging eyes anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, thank you to everyone who has commented. You give me life. YAAAAAASSS.


	8. Chapter 8

“Stiles. Could you come to my office for a minute?”

“Sure.” 

Sheriff Stilinski watched Stiles fill in the last box of the form he was labouring over, then he returned to his office to wait for his son. It was coming up on a week since Stiles had shown up at his door with haunted eyes and a bag full of stuff. The Sheriff had taken one look at the son he’d seen so full of life only a month ago and called the station, letting Tara on the desk know that Stiles would be coming in to work the next day. He knew his son, and nothing less than the crumbling of Stiles’ world would have made him leave those kids before he had to. 

The house had been too quiet since then. Stiles had somehow been able to avoid talking to him for longer than five minutes at a time since he’d moved back into his room. 

There was a knock, and Stiles popped his head in. “What’s up?” he said, and shut the door behind him when the Sheriff motioned him in. He sank into the wooden chair, and the Sheriff was reminded of the last time they’d sat together like this. Stiles seemed to be a different man than the one who’d slouched apologetically in front of him over two months ago. His back was straighter, his arms less fidgety, but his eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle.

The Sheriff didn’t beat around the bush. “I got a call from one of the Hale family’s employees today. A man named Deaton?”

Stiles nodded and swallowed audibly, but didn’t offer any more information.

“He was asking whether you wanted to come and pick up the stuff you left yourself, or if you wanted it dropped off.”

Stiles fixed his eyes on the nameplate on the desk, his finger tapping restlessly on the knee of his ill-fitting slacks.

The Sheriff sighed, leaning on his elbows and pinning Stiles with the same stare he used to use when bedtime was being avoided at all costs.

“Son. What happened?” The Sheriff said, quietly. 

Stiles’ face twitched with a few different emotions, and for a second, the Sheriff thought he might try to avoid answering.

“I was getting too attached,” he said instead. “You know me. I tend to obsess over things.” His mouth twisted with a self-deprecating smile. “The longer I stayed there, the harder it would’ve been for me to leave. I figured a clean break was best, so that they could--”

“Bullshit.” Stiles’ head jerked back on his neck in surprise and The Sheriff relished the rare expression. “Stiles, they live on the edge of town, not in Switzerland. You can go and see them whenever you want, I’m sure they’d be happy to see you. What’s the real reason?”

Stiles’ torso curved into a defeated slouch, and he scrubbed his fingers through his short hair. “Lydia, she…You remember Lydia, right?”

“The redhead?”

“She prefers strawberry blonde. But yeah. She said that Derek was in love with me,” he said, on a humourless laugh. “It isn’t true,” he hastened to add. “I know it isn’t. But, then she told me that...that I…”

What Stiles had said was true. He did have an obsessive personality, and a tendency to dive into things head long. He never felt mildly about anything, he only ever completely detested or absolutely loved whatever it was. 

That Stiles would involve himself so deeply in the family he was supposed to be a nanny for that he would fall in love with the father should not have been as surprising as it was. 

“I had to leave,” Stiles continued, a bleak sort of certainty colouring his tone.

“Why?” 

Stiles looked up, surprised. “He’ll never return my feelings, so it’s better if I just--” he made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “It was always going to happen. At least, this way I don’t get my feelings spilled all over him. Less messy.”

“What makes you think he won’t return his feelings?”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “Well, for one, he’s already with someone.” 

“And?”

“And what?” Stiles lifted his shoulders in an exasperated shrug. “He’s dating someone else. From the sounds of it, they’re going to get married in the next couple of years.”

“That very well might be, but I think you owe him an explanation.” The Sheriff reached for his coffee mug and took a healthy swig, bracing himself for what was sure to be Stiles’ displeasure. “I want you to go back there.” 

“Dad, I can’t,” Stiles tried to protest, but the Sheriff held up a hand and talked over him. 

“You can finish out the summer working at the station if you like, but I want you to go back to the Hale’s place first. Apologize for leaving so suddenly, and tell him. 

“Tell him…?” Stiles cocked his head like a confused puppy.

“Tell him how you feel,” the Sheriff enunciated slowly. “Maybe nothing will come of it. Or, maybe he’ll have an answer you didn’t expect.”

Stiles burst up from the chair, pacing a little in a two foot space in front of the desk, and the Sheriff was happy to see Stiles’ restless energy back again, even if it was because he was annoyed.

“I don’t want to be the cliched babysitter who broke up the parent’s marriage,” Stiles declared, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. 

“So, don’t be. He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. There’s a difference between sneaking around with the help and re-evaluating a relationship because you’ve found you want something different.” Stiles scoffed, but didn’t otherwise interrupt. “It likely won’t even come to that. If he’s as happy as you say, he’ll say ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ and you’ll both move on. ” 

“Of course he will. Even if he was single as a pringle, he’s _him_.” Ah, yes, the Sheriff thought. The incomparable Derek, who he’d been hearing about non-stop on the phone before Stiles had run away. “And I’m just me.” Stiles’ sweeping gesture encompassed his whole body. All 147 pounds of it.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed, and got up from his chair with more effort than it had taken 10 years ago. He walked around the desk, silently, and leaned against it, his arms drawn over his chest. Stiles had always been a strangely confident kid. He wasn’t popular, or particularly likable, and accepting that at a young age had given him the advantage of not caring a whit what other people cared about him. He’d used this shield so effectively that it was always a shock to the Sheriff when he realized that it wasn’t impermeable. He was capable of being hurt, and right now? He was wounded. 

“Your mom and I met because our mothers played bridge together on Thursdays. A bunch of Polish women would get together to gossip about their children, then try to set them up.” It was a story Stiles had heard from his mother every year on their anniversary. The Sheriff hadn’t had the strength to tell it in the years since her death, but he knew Stiles knew it by heart. He hadn’t been told the whole story, however.

“I took her for coffee to get your babcia off my back, fully expecting it to be the worst date of my life. She walked in and...she wasn’t pretty. Your mother was many things, but pretty wasn’t one of them. She was skinny and awkward and had this odd upturned nose.” Some part of the Sheriff relaxed when his son crinkled his odd, upturned nose in fond irritation. “She wasn’t beautiful, but from the second she walked into that diner, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. So, I know a little something about falling in love with weird people with eyes too big for their faces.”

Stiles let out a harsh breath that was almost a laugh, and drifted over to the desk. When he reached the Sheriff’s side, he let his head fall onto his shoulder, and was wrapped in a hug longer and tighter than they’d had in years. 

“Go back, Stiles,” the Sheriff said into his son’s ear, and felt Stiles’ shoulder blades lift in an unsteady break under his forearms. “You could get shot down. That’s true. But at least you won’t have spent your whole life wondering what might have happened if you put your heart on the line.” 

“That’s so cheesy,” Stiles said in a choked voice, pulling away and rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I know. Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Stiles laughed, and the Sheriff knew he’d won. “Fine, I’ll go back” Stiles said, heading for the door of the office. “But you’d better be waiting with the ice cream and a Bond marathon when I’m crushed like an ant under his ridiculously hot boot.”

“Sure thing,” the Sheriff said, but Stiles was already out the door. 

He couldn’t have said what made him think so, but he had a feeling that they wouldn’t be needed. 

***

Derek hated the news. Watching boring anchors recite depressing stories written by their biased networks was not his idea of a nice evening at home, and the constant scrolling headlines made his eyes tired.

But tonight, he couldn’t look away. 

Derek had been following the success of the Sterling Freedom Party’s campaign for mandatory werewolf registration since it was proposed over three years ago. As it was now, whether born or bitten, no werewolf needed to disclose their status as non-human, unless they were being charged with a crime. Not even their doctor had to know, which wasn’t something that came up frequently, as werewolves didn’t typically need much medical care. 

The Argent’s proposition would change that. A large “W” would be added to all government-issued identification. Schools, employment and any form of medical care needed to informed on an individual’s werewolf status. If a werewolf is found not to be registered, heavy fines or imprisonment would follow.

Most werewolves didn’t hide their status, at least not to close friends and family. It was considered the responsible thing to inform an adolescent's school that they had a legitimate reason to be absent every full moon, but no one required it. The lack of comprehensive discrimination laws meant that most employers were in the dark, and many werewolves suffered through full moon morning-afters to avoid getting found out, or worse, fired.

Tonight, Gerard Argent would be speaking about the hypothetical registration for almost an hour on a popular political news show to try to gain support, both financial and thought public opinion. Gerard’s portion program hadn’t even started yet, and Derek’s stomach was in knots. Whatever anyone said about Gerard Argent, they couldn’t deny that he was an excellent speaker. He harnessed just enough kind, doddering grandfather, tempered with the vocabulary and sharpness of a college professor. 

Jennifer entered the study with a mug of tea as the news went to a commercial break, and sat next to Derek. The hand she placed on his shoulder was more tentative than it/she? had been in the past, and it was no wonder. There had been a low-level sense of tension between them since she’d invited the Argents into his home, and neither of them wanted to broach the topic, lest they make things worse.

“You’ve been glued to that seat for an hour already,” Jennifer said, gently. “Are you planning on unsticking any time soon?”

“I wish I could,” he said, though it was true in a different way than Jennifer would take it.

“It’s early yet. We could go out, maybe. Take your mind off things.” 

“I can’t. It’s too…”

“Derek, it will go as well or as poorly as it will, regardless of whether you’re sitting here.” She leaned forward and placed her steaming tea on the coffee table, then took his hand in both of hers. “It’ll be all over twitter tomorrow anyway, so you can get the highlights in short form instead of watching the whole boring thing start to finish.

He clenched his fist under her warm fingers. “How can you be so flippant about this?”

“How can you be so serious? This isn’t the dark ages. No one’s going to be put to death simply because they have to tell the government they’re not human.”

“Please don’t make it sound so petty.”

“Isn’t it, though? The way I see it, if werewolves have nothing to hide, why not register? It’s not like it’s some big secret.”

“What about the health care they’ll be denied by doctors who don’t know how to properly sedate them? Or the cops who’ll treat them differently once they see their licenses? If those werewolves die because of a letter they have on their IDs, isn’t that just the same as a silver bullet to the head like what used to happen decades ago?” Decades, not centuries, like humans from Northern states like to pretend.

“No, it’s not!” Jennifer huffed in disbelief. “Not at all. Any werewolf who’s been killed by a cop would have been aggressive. No police officer would be stupid enough to kill an innocent werewolf who didn’t have it coming.”

Derek burst up from the chair, and crossed the room, needing to put some space in between them.“Have we not been reading the same newspapers? Innocent werewolves are killed almost every week, simply because they get too panicked to hide their claws and cops with complexes label them as ‘ _aggressive_ ’ and shoot before thinking with high concentration wolfsbane bullets no small town police department should ever have access to.”

Jennifer smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath before she responded, “I won’t deny that there have been instances where a confrontation went wrong. But don’t you think that it might be that you’re overly sensitive, being a werewolf yourself? You know me, Derek. I’m not a bigot. I just think you’re making it out to be far worse than it is.”

Jennifer’s heart was steady and strong. Not a blip to indicate the words she spoke were anything less than the cold hard truth, in her mind. 

“I don’t think we’ll ever see eye to eye on this,” Derek murmured.

“Agree to disagree?” Her cheeks dimpled in a charming smile that Derek couldn’t return. 

Derek let the silence unspool between them, the only side the low voices from the TV. The space between them seemed cavernous, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t come out helplessly bitter and angry. 

“I see,” Jennifer said, and smiled sadly. She rose quietly from her seat and walked to the door. When she opened the door, she paused for a moment, looking back at Derek like she had something to say. Or perhaps, she wanted Derek to say something, anything to keep her from walking out the door. When he couldn’t oblige, she nodded and the door shut softly behind her.

Derek walked back to the couch, suddenly tired, though it was only just getting dark. He sat heavily and watched the steam rise slowly from the tea that Jennifer had left behind, untouched. 

He and Jennifer had never expected, or wanted, the romance of the century, but he’d thought that he would have felt sad to see her go. But, he supposed, her leaving was a single matchstick thrown in the forest fire that was the loss of Stiles.

Derek let his head fall into his hands as his chest ached anew with the thought of him. He’d replayed that last day in his mind over and over in the week he’d been gone.

He would never have been dishonest with Jennifer, but for one moment, when he’d been close enough to feel Stiles’ heartbeat instead of just hear it, he’d thought that there might have been something there. He’d wondered if, just maybe, Stiles had felt it too. But, then, he might have, and that could have been the reason he’d left. 

So many times in the last week, he’d taken out his phone, determined to call and ask _why_ , so that at least he could stop torturing himself with the thought that his burgeoning attraction had chased away the only person, outside his family, that Derek had felt anything for, beyond ambivalence or distaste. 

Derek roughly scrubbed his hands through his hair and stood up from the couch. Jennifer had a point about Gerard’s propaganda display going as well as it would go, regardless of whether Derek was watching it. He knew that Peter would be watching it too, and he trusted his uncle enough to give a solid recap. Or, at least, he trusted Peter more than he did the internet. 

His children were reading when he entered the den, except for Isaac, who was colouring in any available real estate on the “Hales R #1” poster that had, until recently, been tacked on Stiles’ bedroom wall. Scott was on the armchair, frowning at his phone, probably about some trouble in paradise with the girlfriend he still refuses to tell Derek anything about. 

When Derek sat down next to her, Cora slapped her book shut and tossed it to the couch. 

“Not enjoying that one?” He asked.

“It’s alright. You know how much I hate starting a new book if the old one isn’t finished.” 

Derek nodded, familiar with the way she would persevere through countless books she didn’t enjoy, simply because she couldn’t leave them unfinished. 

“What was wrong with the last one?”

She mumbled something, low and garbled enough that Derek had to ask her to repeat herself.

“Stiles didn’t finish the Prisoner of Azkaban,” said Jackson, frowning thunderously.

Derek recalled them reading it on Stiles’ bed, the day Derek had...The day Stiles left. 

“We still have that somewhere, don’t we? You could finish it yourself.”

“I’ve read it before,” Cora reminded him. “It’s not the same as having it read out loud.”

“I could read it,” Derek suggested.

Cora considered this for a few long moments, then finally decided, “sure.” 

She grabbed the book from it’s place on the shelf and handed it to Derek with a sulky flourish. After finding the correct chapter, Derek started to read, gladly getting lost in the story. He was so immersed, in fact, that he didn’t hear anything outside until there was a voice at the door. 

“That’s gotta be the worst McGonagall I’ve ever heard.”

Derek whipped his head around while cries of “Stiles!” filled the room, and the kids rushed the door. 

“You’re back,” Erica screeched, making everyone wince.

“I’m back,” Stiles confirmed, pulling her in for a full body hug. Then he pushed her back until his hands were on her shoulders, and he could look into her face, with a serious expression. “Only until September, though. Just like before.”

Derek watched, shell-shocked, as Stiles greeted all of them, checking in with Scott’s progress with the mystery girl, asking if Lydia had mastered long division, high fiving Jackson when he learned about his lost tooth. He spoke to all of them, smiling like he’d been gone months, instead of a mere week. 

When the hellos were over, Stiles stayed on the floor, on his knees, conversing happily until he finally glanced up to see Derek. The chatter stopped, and there was a tense quiet, during which Stiles’ smile slipped off his face, and Derek struggled to the words to welcome him back.

“I think we should go to bed, now,” said Lydia, apropos of nothing. 

“What?” Came Jackson’s outraged cry. “Why? I don’t want to!”

Lydia stamped her foot and glared at him, but Boyd waded in before they came to blows. “Come on, let’s go get your PJs on. We’ll talk upstairs.”

They filed out quickly, leaving Stiles and Derek alone, and Derek suddenly felt that his children knew something he didn’t. 

The awkward silence reigned, as Stiles got to his feet. Derek watched Stiles fiddle with the zipper on his hoodie for a few moments, silently begging Stiles to be the first one to say anything. Just as Stiles drew breath to speak, there was a knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Jennifer, her fall jacket on and a Louis Vuitton carry-on at her side. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Jennifer said, with a smile, stiff smile. “You’re back.”

“Hey, Jennifer,” he replied, then noticed the bag she’d packed. “Are you going back to New York for the Gala?”

“No. Permanently, I’m afraid,” she adjusted her grip on the bag, not looking at either of them. 

“What?”Jennifer’s words sunk in and Stiles rushed to say, “oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“It’s alright, Stiles. Derek and I have simply found that we want different things from life.” She nodded at both of them, and lifted her free hand in a small wave. “Goodbye, Derek. Stiles,” she said, and closed the door behind her. 

Derek knew immediately that Jennifer had known all along about his attraction to Stiles. But her parting words didn’t feel like an accusation. They felt like permission. 

***

Stiles listened to Jennifer’s heels click down the hallway toward the door. He felt like an awful person when a flicker of hope lit in his chest. Derek had just ended a relationship. He didn’t need Stiles throwing himself at him, despite what Stiles’ dad had said.

“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Derek’s voice was soft, but it still made Stiles startle and turn around. 

“Wow, right out the gate. No ‘hello’? No ‘nice to see you’?” Stiles knew he was stalling, but it was easier than tearing his chest open to bare his beating heart to Derek two minutes after he’d walked in the door.

“It’s nice to see you, Stiles. Why did you leave?” Derek persisted, stepping closer to where Stiles hovered by the door.

“I...it’s complicated, alright? I don’t know if I could just,” he faltered, making a helpless gesture in front of his throat, “put it into words.”

“You’re trying to tell me that _you_ are having a difficult time talking about something?” Derek took another few steps and gave him an unimpressed look, while Stiles fought not to press back against the door. He wasn’t afraid of Derek, but he felt vulnerable, alone in the room with the man who was probably about the shatter his stupid, _stupid_ heart.

“Hey, come on. I can be quiet. Why don’t I give you an example of how quiet I can be?” He mimed zipping his mouth shut, reasonably sure that Derek wasn’t going to take the bait.

Derek definitely didn’t. “Stiles, why?”

“‘Why’ is such an existential question, isn’t it?”

“Stiles.” 

“Can I phone a friend?”

“Stiles.”

“I love you, okay?” he burst out, closing his eyes to hide from Derek’s reaction. To fill the silence, he repeated, softer, “I love you, and that’s why I couldn’t stay.” 

“You…” 

Stiles chanced a glance at Derek, took in his wide eyes and pale cheeks and looked at the carpet instead. “Yes. I’m sorry I ran away, but I needed some time to get my head around it, so that I can be okay with just being your babysitter.” 

“Stiles, I…”

“I know, Derek,” Stiles said, fighting down a nervous, inappropriate laugh. Of course he knew. He’d known all along how this conversation would go. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything, we can just pretend it never--”

Then, Derek’s mouth was on his, and his back was being pressed against the wooden door. Stiles froze with shock, then melted under the heat of Derek’s kiss. With grasping hands, he pulled Derek closer by his shoulders and leaned into feel of Derek’s hand on his jaw. 

Derek kissed him for what felt like hours, and when they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

“I missed you,” Derek said, and leaned his forehead against Stiles’.

“Apparently.” Stiles breathed out a shaky laugh. “Derek, is this--” He struggled to put his thoughts in order with Derek dragging his lips down Stiles’ neck. “Am I dreaming?”

“Not unless I am.” Derek pulled back and ran his thumb down the side of Stiles’ jaw. “I love you, too. It took you leaving for me to realize it.”

Stiles snorted, his smile so wide hurt his face a little. “For me, it took Lydia.”

“What?” 

“She told me that I loved you. The day I left.” They both smiled at Lydia’s insight, then Stiles sobered. “I was shit scared. I’m sorry I ran,”

“It’s okay. I understand. I should have run after you, but I was too stupid to realize it.” Derek took one of Stiles hands and squeezed gently.

Stiles squeezed back. “We were both stupid, how about that?”

Derek nodded, and leaned in to kiss him again. 

When they finally come up for air, Stiles grins cheekily up at Derek, and asks, “So, what now?”

Derek smiled one of his rare, perfect smiles and unlatched the door Stiles was leaning against, sending him falling backwards. Derek caught them both, but not before Stiles let out an embarrassing yelp of surprise.

After Stiles whacked Derek on the shoulder, to little effect, they ran like children down the halls, and stumbled up the stairs, tripping and giggling and getting delayed because they couldn’t keep from making out long enough to see their way. At the top of the staircase, Derek shushed them both and listened for any of the kids who might still be up and about. He gave the all-clear, then tugged Stiles by his wrist toward his room. 

They stopped one more time at the door to the bedroom, and Derek took Stiles’ face in his hands and said, seriously, “Are we moving too fast?”

Stiles smirked and tapped a finger on his kiss-reddened lips. “I don’t know. We’ve had dinner together a bunch of times. I’ve met your whole family. I’m already moved in. I feel like we’re pretty on track.”

Derek grinned, grabbed Stiles’ wrist and pulled him beyond the door.

***

Stupid east-facing windows, Stiles thought, rolling over in bed and snatching a pillow to cover his head, but it was too late. Sighing heavily, he snatched his phone from where he’d left it and squinted blearily at the screen. 

There was a text from Derek. It was a heart emoticon. Nothing else. Stiles got so flustered by it that he dropped his phone on his face. 

“Ow.” He stuck the thing in Derek’s charger/alarm clock and got up, deciding as he stretched that breakfast was more important than showering, especially since Derek had dragged him out of bed to shower last night after…

After, Stiles thought and his sleepy zombie-shuffle was lighter because of it. 

When he opened the door to head down to the kitchen, he jumped when he saw Peter on the other side, exiting his own room. 

“Uh, guhmornnng?” He mumbled, his voice sticky and rough from sleep and...other things.

“Good morning, Stiles,” Peter said, pleasantly. Bastard was probably a morning person. “Isn’t this an interesting development?”

“Um,” Stiles said, intelligently. He and Peter had had surprisingly few opportunities to get to know each other, considering they’d been living in the same house on and off for about a month. Would he approve of Derek sleeping with an employee? Was that an old-fashioned thing to be concern about?

Peter chuckled, darkly and drawled, “Don’t look so worried. I knew Derek and Jennifer wouldn’t last.” Peter’s sharp smile softened into something sadder, more reminiscent. “Despite his gruff exterior, he’s still the sentimental boy my sister raised, who used to steal his sister’s dolls to play family with.” 

Stiles tried to picture it, and found it was surprisingly easy. 

“Besides,” Peter continued, breaking out of his reverie, “the tension between the two of you was so thick you could spread it on crackers for tea time. Speaking of which, I think they’re making pancakes downstairs.”

Peter started in the direction of the stairs, then paused when they both heard the sounds of the children eating breakfast downstairs. He turned, and pinned Stiles with a look that managed to be both terrifying and approving.

“Welcome to the family, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I toyed with actually writing Stiles and Derek getting it on, but I just couldn't do it with Julie Andrews' virginal face in my mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Derek disembarked the plane and made his way to the arrivals gate in a state of shock. As he wove through the masses of people, he avoided the TVs flashing with newsreels. His heart squeezed when he saw Stiles waiting for him, his wide smile lighting the monochrome airport lobby. 

When Derek dropped his suitcase, Stiles pulled him in close for a long kiss, then hugged him with all the strength his lanky body could give. Derek clung black, running his hands over Stiles’ shoulders and the soft material of his hoodie, and breathing in the scent of home. “I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered in Derek’s ear, and the warm feeling of safety disappeared into the cold, vast depths of his worry and anger. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“I just wish it wasn’t so...final. I thought for sure the bill would have been blocked somewhere, by someone who had half a brain.”

“I know. But they got a lot of support." Derek palmed the back of Stiles's head, curling his fingers in tickling brush of his short hair. "Enlightened people like you and me underestimate the fear of werewolves people still have. At least it’s only at the state level. We’ll have time to fight to have it repealed before they take it federal."

“Look at you, being all positive," Stiles teased, his lips curling in a sad smile.

“I have to be. Or I have to start imagining a future where my children will be branded as less than human for the rest of their lives.” 

Stiles lurched forward for another long embrace, and Derek could smell the sadness and impotent anger pouring off him. Derek held him without comment, filtering out the sounds of the busy airport around them. After a few minutes, Stiles pulled away, his face dry and resolutely cheerful.

"Let's go home,” Stiles said, “They missed you."

***

It was like déjà vu. The car pulled up to the front of their house, and the massive SUVs of the Sterling Freedom Party were parked haphazardly, taking up as much space as they could of the wide driveway. Derek couldn’t hold back a growl, but Stiles’ hand on his shoulder kept him from jumping out of the moving car in beta form.

“They have to know I won’t ally with them now,” he growled. “What could they possibly want?” 

“Nothing good.”

As soon as the car was in park, Derek shoved open his door and headed for the drawing room in the house, Stiles at his side. He didn’t need Stiles’ grounding squeeze of his hand, but he appreciated it anyway.

“Argent,” he bit off as he came through the door, “unless you’re here to tell me you’ve changed your mind about the registration laws, I want you out of my house.” Derek directed this at the three bulky bodyguards who crowded his parlour, as well as the two Argents.

“No such luck, Hale,” Gerard said, standing up from the couch, smooth as slick oil. “We are firm in our convictions.”

“Then get off my property,” he growled, knowing, as he said it, that Stiles would be impersonating Clint Eastwood at him later.

“Let’s not be so hasty, Derek,” Gerard oozed, the casual use of his first name making Derek’s jaw twitch. “We have a business proposition for you.” 

“I don’t do business with people like you.”

Gerard continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “As you know, the registration rules went into effect three days ago. We are prepared for the large majority of werewolves in the state to register within the three week grace period, but we expect there may be some stragglers.”

Derek stayed silent, not trusting his voice, since he could guess where Gerard was going with it.

“Derek, I’m sure you know you’re the strongest alpha in the region. Your pack may be small,” Gerard’s lips curved in a smile that could be mistaken as grandfatherly, if Derek didn’t know the truth, “but your claim on this territory is powerful and old. Almost as old as the Argents’.”

Chris Argent shifted his feet on the other side of the couch, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as his father asked the unthinkable of Derek.

“We have a job we’d like you to perform,” Gerard continued. “We would look the other way when your brood all fail to register, if you would help us to sniff out anyone we suspect to be dragging their feet. We’re going to give them until the night of the full moon.” 

_Of course they will_ , Derek thought, bitterly. They’d wait until any dissenting werewolves were on edge from the moon’s pull, when they were most likely to lash out if cornered.

“I am not your bloodhound,” Derek said, angry beyond the point of shouting.

When Derek said no more, Argent chuckled softly and wandered over to the fireplace, inspecting the mantel, which was crowded with photos, old and new. “Your children are beautiful,” he said, as softly as Derek had been. Derek stiffened, and felt Stiles do the same beside him. “It’s amazing how similar the development of a werewolf child is to a human one. Until puberty, even the most powerful adolescent would only be a strong as a very weak adult.” Gerard tapped his finger on a picture of a shyly smiling Isaac. “I know quite a few exceptionally strong adults, Hale.”

Derek felt his nail beds tighten with the urge to lash out, to finish this conversation by showing Gerard just how monstrous he could be. Instead, he opened his mouth to tell him to wear a meat suit into an alligator pit, but Stiles cut him off.

“Derek,” he said, gently. “We don’t have to be enemies. I think we should listen to what they’re saying. Weren’t you just saying that you’d do anything to avoid this?” Even if Derek couldn’t hear and smell the deception, he would have heard the icy falseness in Stiles’ voice. “I’m Stiles, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Gerard leaned forward to take Stiles’ offered hand, smiling patronizingly. “Are you one of the children I’ve heard so much about?”

Stiles looked young, Derek knew, especially in his college kid uniform of a loose graphic tee and skinny-ish jeans. Hell, he _was_ young, just 22 to Derek’s nearly 30. But Gerard was a smart man, and would have gathered as much information as he possibly could about Derek’s family, including the who’d been on his payroll for the last few months.

“Nah, I’m a Stilinski, through and through.” Derek saw the pillars of hired muscle shift, and could smell their anxiety spike. They were obviously local enough that they’d heard the name. “We’d love to help you, gentlemen,” Stiles continued, “but, the thing is, we’re busy this full moon.”

“Washing your hair?” Quipped Chris. 

“Heh, no. Really. We have an event. We’d push it forward, but it has to be this full moon. It’s the 8th of the 8th year since the last Sickle Claw moon. It’s very important to us. The whole family’s gonna be doing a ritual in the preserve,” Stiles laced his fingers through Derek’s and squeezed tight enough that Derek could feel the dampness of his sweating palms. “Workaholic over here’s taking the day off and everything.”

“Sickle Claw? I’m not familiar with that ritual.” It was well-known that Chris knew enough about werewolves to hold his own in any debate. Derek had often wondered how he could be so opposed to werewolves when he knew so much about them. 

“You wouldn’t be,” Stiles said, shaking his head and smiling indulgently at Chris. “It’s a Hale pack thing, not a species-wide observance. It has to do with the birth of the first born wolf of the Hale generation.” Derek was amazed at Stiles’ bullshit, how he waved his hand dismissively with the just the right amount of relaxed vagueness. He sounded completely confident, though his heartbeat was going crazy.

“Huh,” Chris looked like he wanted to argue, to call Stiles on his lie, and his taciturn face pulled into an even deeper frown when he tried, and failed to find any sign of Stiles’ dishonesty.

“We’ll help you just as soon as the full moon is over,” Stiles said, managing to sound apologetic, yet firm, brooking no argument. “Until then, we’ll be exercising our right to cultural diversity, which, as you’ve said, you have no intention to infringe upon, since to do so would be un-American.”

It was a direct quote, taken from a comment Argent made to one of the newspapers who opposed him, and called him out for his blatant anti-werewolf beliefs. 

“Very well, then,” Argent replied, fastening his jacket and motioning to the hired muscle. “We’ll see you the night after the full moon.” He was out of the room and heading toward the exit before either of them could respond, but that was fine with Derek. He couldn’t have said a civil goodbye anyway.

The bodyguards had been on Gerard’s heels, but Chris took one last, long look at the photos on the mantel, then followed his father out the door, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

***

Stiles waited until he heard the car doors slam to take Derek by the wrist and hurry them both to the basement, to the panic room Stiles had known about, but never had a reason to use. When the door thumped shut, and he was 100% certain they were away from prying ears, Stiles turned to Derek.

“We’re in trouble, Der,” he said. 

“I know.” Derek paced the small room, dragging his fingers through his hair. “We’ve got to get out. It isn’t safe for any of us here.”

“We can’t just get on a plane and go. You know that, right?” Stiles said, gently. Derek whipped around to face him, impotent fury tensing his jaw. “The Argents have so many supporters here, and we can’t guarantee we’ll even make it to the interstate safely. And say what you will about the Argents, they’re smart. If they hurt one of kids somehow, they’ll be clever enough to not leave any evidence, and any accusation we make will just come off as a desperate bid to discredit them. 

“They want us to try to run, Derek.” Stiles took him by the shoulders and looked him firmly in the eyes. “They want us to make a break for it, so that we get caught while they have eyes on us.”

“What do you suppose we do then? Sit here and wait? Let him use me to hunt down werewolves like stray dogs?”

“No. We can’t go now, but, if we wait, we can take them by surprise. “ Derek went completely still, hanging on every word of Stiles’ plan. “They’ll still be waiting us to escape on the full moon night, but we’ll have the advantage. They’ll be expecting us to go into the preserve and not come out for some time. You and the kids know that forest like back of your hands, and I grew up playing out there instead of with other kids. We could slip away. My Dad would help us. If we could just make it as far as Oregon, we’d be in the clear. Maybe all the way to Seattle, if we can keep the kids from going crazy.”

Even as he said it, Stiles imagined trying to keep Jackson buckled into his seat for 15 hours of driving, and the thought made him smile, even locked in a panic room discussing a flight for their lives.

“We’d be out of their reach. We could go to New York. We’ll make a public statement to the press about how you wanted the kids closer to your work, and that it doesn’t have anything to do with the registration. If Argent makes a move, it would be completely unprovoked. He couldn’t risk it, not without his support network from the West Coast.”

Derek put his back against the concrete wall of the panic room, and slid all the way to the floor, resting his head in his hands. Stiles sat down next to him, expecting Derek to disagree at any moment, say it was too dangerous, and that they’d have to think of something else. (There was nothing else.) 

Derek took a sudden deep breath in, then noisily exhaled. “Okay,” he said.

“Yeah?” Derek nodded and pulled him closer, guiding Stiles’ head into his chest. Stiles went freely, grabbing right back. “Okay, then. I’ll make some calls. Plan out the specifics.”

“I trust you,” Derek said, and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

After a few more minutes of talking over the preparations that they’d be making over the next few weeks, they realized the kids would probably be wondering where they were, and they headed for the door of the panic room. Before Stiles could enter in the code that unlocked it from the inside, Derek stopped him.

“Stiles, your police training,” he said. “It’s supposed to start soon. You could stay here, go back to your father’s house. You’re human, which means you’re only a target as long as you associate with us.”

Stiles grinned, and punched Derek’s shoulder, to little effect. “Idiot. I’m pack now, you said it yourself. Can’t get rid of me that easy.” 

Derek grabbed Stiles hand and squeezed, then they both started up the stairs toward the sound of small feet starting a search party.

***

It took a tremendous amount of effort to continue on as normal. While both Stiles and Derek itched to board up the windows and keep the kids confined, it would only look suspicious. So Stiles kept taking them to the diner to meet his dad, and Derek took them for walks in the park, or, in broad daylight, the preserve. Both of them were constantly on edge, flinching at shadows and looking over their shoulders. It didn’t take long for the kids to notice something was up, and they were each given an explanation, somewhat simplified for the younger kids, and in painful detail for the older ones.

Once informed, the kids were eager to assist. In the weeks coming up to the full moon, they helped carry their supplies to a location in the preserve where Deaton had hidden the largest of the Hale vehicles, the 10 seater van. It would be a tight fit, with all their luggage included, but they’d manage. They disguised the clothes, toiletries and passports in boxes of apples and bundles of firewood, and other innocuous things that looked like they would be used in their mysterious ritual. 

On their trips back and forth, Stiles can see nothing in the trees, but even the kids said, when they were back in the house, that they could feel eyes on them. The Argents were waiting.

On the day of the full moon, when Isaac and Erica go down for their nap, the rest do too, after much complaining, from everyone except Scott, who’d been quiet and vaguely sad all week. Derek and Stiles go to bed too, holding each other in the light of the fading afternoon. They went over the plan again and again, phoned Stiles’ father at the station and Peter in New York before forcing themselves to get some sleep too. It would be a long night.

***

Stiles made them all wear a sweater, though September in California wasn’t known for its chilliness, and he encouraged their excited chatter as they took a well-trod path toward the place they’d set up for their fake ritual. 

It took them over fifteen minutes to walk deep into the preserve, where cars wouldn’t fit. When they reached the firepit they’d dug days ago, Derek set about lighting it, while Stiles set white candles in a circle around it. 

“It’s burning too quickly.” Derek said, at length. 

“Did you try the damp rag?” Stiles replied, following their script. 

“Yes, it didn’t work.” Derek stood and brushed his hands off. “We’ll have to go somewhere else, somewhere it isn’t so dry.”

This time, when they picked up and went deeper into the preserve, they didn’t giggle and chat. They walked quicker as the trees grew denser, and at Derek’s nod, Scott and Stiles made a wide berth at the edges of their group, obstructing their path. They met up at the edge of the ravine that ran through the preserve, a shallow part of it that had dried up in the summer heat. 

Stiles tried to quiet his harsh breathing from the quick trip through the forest as Derek lifted his head to scent the air and listen for the sound of cocked guns or charged tasers. What they heard instead was an echoing howl that pierced the preserve’s buzzing, wild silence. Right on schedule. 

Derek’s estimation was that they had about 5 minutes to get to the car before the Argent’s men figured out the trick and were back on their trail. Before the recording of Derek’s howl was finished, they were helping the kids climb down into the dry bed of the creek, and hurrying along the winding path. The steep walls on either side of them worked like a wartime trench, keeping them hidden from Argent’s men on foot, though they had little protection from above. 

The kids ran as fast as they ever had in games of tag on the lawn, Isaac clutching Scott’s hand, just as he’d been told. Stiles brought up the rear, following the group when they forked left, and ducked under fallen logs. 

All Stiles could hear with the quick, shallow breath of the children, and the rhythmic puff of their running shoes on the parched, cracked earth. Even the rustling trees and twitching underbrush seemed to be silent, or perhaps they were just drowned out by the roaring in Stiles’ ears. 

After a few minutes of running, Stiles’ ribs clenched, and his legs burned, but he kept up with the group. He wouldn’t let his humanity be the deciding factor in this family’s survival. Soon, though, they came to a rough patch, where the ravine grew shallow again. At Derek’s signal, the older kids helped the smaller ones clamber to the top. 

This was the part Stiles and Derek had feared the most. Though they were feet away, Cora, then Jackson, then Lydia were unprotected at the lip of the crevasse, until the rest could join them. Stiles’ heart stuttered, then beat loud in his ears as he saw their silhouettes against the bright light of the full moon, far too visible. 

Stiles was the last to be hefted up by his elbows, and they didn’t spare a moment for anything but a quick headcount before they were off running running again. This time, dodging trees and skidding down inclines dusted with rotting leaves. 

They were so close. Stiles had just glimpsed the dull shine of the van’s side mirrors when from the left of their group, there came a snap of twigs and a rush of someone moving through the forest. 

Derek pushed the kids behind him, toward Stiles, and faced the assassin who emerged from the thick trees to the small clearing, but before he could attack, Scott leapt between them. 

They all froze, waiting for the hunter’s arrow, cocked and trembling with tension, to hit it’s target between Scott’s eyes. Stiles couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even gather the air to plead with the girl to spare them.

“Allison,” Scott said, his rough whisper splintering the silent stand off. “Please.”

Allison didn’t react for a long time, except to shift her stance, her heavy boots scratching in the dirt. Then, she slowly lowered her bow, sheathing the arrow at her back. She reached for her pocket, and they all tensed when she pulled out her phone. Scott took a small step forward and whimpered when she tapped out a message on the screen, but then she turned the screen toward them. In small letters, barely large enough for Stiles to see, it read _all clear on south west side._

Allison turned and headed for the deeper part of the forest, and Scott sagged with relief, then ran into Stiles’ arms, shaking with silent sobs. Stiles watched her retreating figure over Scott’s head, and his heart ached for her when she wiped her face with her black leather wrist guard. 

When Derek scented the air and gave the sign, they hurried through the dark and tugged the branches off the van that had been hidden in plain sight, fake rust painted onto the side to make it look like an abandoned husk.

The kids climbed in, not arguing, for once, over who got the front seat. (Cora. She had the best eyes, they all agreed.) Stiles sat with Scott on the bench seat behind Derek, their legs cramped from the luggage crammed in on all sides. After their seatbelts were fastened with trembling hands, Scott tucked his face into Stiles’ shoulder, and crumpled in his grief. Stiles gripped the back of his neck and mourned for a piece of Scott's childhood that would forever be tainted -- his first love, forced to choose between killing his whole family or betraying hers. 

Derek rolled down the window with the old-fashioned crank and sniffed the air, listening one final time for the sounds of their imminent capture. He heard nothing, evidently, as he nodded slightly, and put his hand on the key in the ignition. He didn’t start the vehicle, however. He looked into the rearview mirror, and met Stiles’ eyes, and Stiles could understand his hesitation.

The second they pulled away, they were on the run. It would be too late to go back to the Argents and claim that they’d simply gotten sidetracked performing their fictional ritual. They’d thought of everything, and Stiles was confident that they’d make it to New York, to safety, but in the back of their minds, each of them had had their moments of doubt. 

Stiles gripped Scott’s shoulder, and over his bowed head, he stared into Derek’s alpha red eyes and nodded. 

They’d be okay, Stiles thought, as Derek turned over the engine and peeled out of their tiny clearing. He was certain that they’d come back to these woods, the trees that had raised them both. 

And when they did, they’d all be free. No strings attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry if this seems to end suddenly/inconclusively. To wrap it up like a brown paper package with strings(hah) seemed very unlike the movie. I felt it was better ended this way, with the whole family driving off into the sunrise to face the new world of political unrest. Let me know if you feel differently(nicely, please.) Hope you enjoyed this fic as much I did! I’ll definitely be returning to this fandom, and I already have an idea for a new fic. :)
> 
> Thanks to everything who’s been following this story and commenting! It’s been so fun, glad to have you along for the ride! Happy birthday, SylvieW Hope it was everything that you wanted!


End file.
